


cast their shadow before

by Pepel_in_Kri



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Character Death, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Depression, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25519054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pepel_in_Kri/pseuds/Pepel_in_Kri
Summary: “Now you sound like Ned. ‘As high as honour’, those are Arryn words, not ours - remember that. Those southerners might live differently but this is the North. There is no place for mercy or honour when winter falls.”It was Brandon’s mouth that was speaking but the words were their father’s. King Rickard was a just man, but a hard one. Lyanna understood that about him and found it in her to love him nonetheless. She had been educated in the history of their house; she knew how in preparation of an especially hard winter, the North would seek battle with other kingdoms, young men looking for honourable death in combat to lessen the drain on the dwindling food storages.“One more mouth to feed won’t hurt. The winter is nearly over.”Alternatively: in which the Doom of Valyria happens later and Lyanna Stark stumbles upon a stranded dragonlord.
Relationships: Brandon Stark & Lyanna Stark, Brandon Stark & Rickard Stark, Lyanna Stark & Benjen Stark, Lyanna Stark & Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Rhaella Targaryen & Rhargar Targaryen, Rhaella Targaryen & Viserys Targaryen
Comments: 168
Kudos: 204





	1. Lyanna I

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the early 19th century English proverb that goes: "Coming events cast their shadow before," meaning some initial effects indicating the nature of an event may be felt before it takes place.

The morning had found Lyanna in a good mood, a fact her brother had commented on with undisguised amusement. She paid him no mind, impatiently bouncing on her toes as the stableboy prepared her horse.

Despite his attempts to appear dignified as the crown prince should, Brandon was no better. His left leg kept twitching almost as if it had developed a mind of its own and he shot it a glance of great betrayal. 

Standing mulishly next to the two of them, Benjen was the image of misery.

“It’s not fair,” he repeated for the hundredth time in the same sullen tone, “I want to go too! It’s been almost a moon since I last rode my pony. At this rate I’ll outgrow it before Father will let me out.”

Brandon clicked with his tongue sharply, growing impatient with his brother’s complainings. Already temperamental, being trapped in the castle without being able to escape the King and the maester breathing down his neck had rendered his temper dark like the water in the Godswood.

“Whose fault was it that you got sick? Father told you to wait until the blizzard had passed before leaving the castle.”

The boy wiped his leaking nose with the back of his hand morosely, unmoved by his brother’s chastisement. 

“But it took ages! And I wasn’t alone, Lyanna went out too but nobody is forcing her to stay inside!”

“That’s because I didn’t fall ill.” Lyanna took mercy on her sniffling brother, messing up his hair gently. “I’m sure Father will let you come with us soon. You saw how happy he was to get rid of the two of us this morning and you were by far worse behaved if Old Nan is to be believed.”

Privately, she was glad Benjen would not be joining them today. After being confined between Winterfell’s walls for nearly a moon, all she wanted was to ride and she didn’t wish to adjust her pace to the old pony’s slow waddle. Neither, she imagined, would Brandon, though her brother’s consideration was oftentimes unpredictable.

Lyanna remembered their mother once likening him to the pendulum on the large Valyrian clock that hung in Father’s cellar. It had been made out of polished jade and engraved with hundreds of exotic flowers. She would watch it swing from one side to the other while her father worked and her mother lay dying.

The long wait ended at least when Martyn Cassel and Wyl finally appeared, carrying two large flax bags that held the food and equipment the siblings needed for their day trip. Lyanna tried to smother her disappointment when she saw them struggle under the weight. She should have had expected the King would not let his children go unprepared, no matter how eager he was for some peace and quiet but the sheer amount of baggage meant her pace would have to be slower than she would have liked.

Her disappointment faded when the stablehand brought her horse, his pale fur shining in the winter sun. No doubt, the servant had brushed him meticulously to prepare him for the Princess but as far as Lyanna was concerned, they could have brought her a muddy, flea-bitten mule and she would have been excited all the same.

She rejected Martyn’s hand, swinging into the saddle with a practiced ease despite her heavy winter clothes, much to the man’s amusement. 

“A little bit longer Princess,” he assured her, “Wyl needs to secure the bags.”

Skinchanger must have heard him as the horse neighed impatiently, hooves digging into the soft ground of the stables. Lyanna pulled the reins lightly as a warning.

Benjen skulked into her field of vision, warily avoiding Skinchanger, more than familiar with the horse’s temperamental nature.

“I swear I can’t tell which one of you is more impatient to get going.” He joked half-heartedly. 

“It’s Brandon.” She assured him for the sake of going along with the joke.

Her brother smacked his lips together in irritation. He was sitting ramrod straight atop his muscular chestnut stallion and tapping a pattern on the reins with his thumbs.

“I’ve been nothing but behaved. Unlike the two of you, I am burdened with duties and expectations.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes and bit her tongue. It was an open secret that Brandon liked to savour the benefits of his title, usually coming in the form of local maidens. The only people who were blind to that were Father and Ned and even the two of them had to at least suspect something.

Whatever duties and expectations her brother had, at very least he had his freedom, something he didn’t seem to appreciate enough much to her resentment.

“Yes, I’m sure the kingdom will collapse if the Crown Prince isn’t a model son all of the time.” She mocked, only a touch of bitterness in her tone.

Brandon didn’t seem to notice it, turning his face to the skies in a mute gesture of irritation.

“For Gods’ sake, how long are you going to be securing the bags for? At this point we’ll have another blizzard before we set off.”

Like most of Winterfell’s servants, Martyn was used to his Prince’s temper and didn’t take offense. 

“In due time, your grace. Your father tasked me with keeping you safe and I intend to do my job well.”

With nothing to say to that, Brandon simply clicked his tongue and abstained from lashing out at anyone else for the rest of the wait, which was a feat when his temper was this foul.

Soon, Martyn and Wyl finished their work and mounted their own horses, signalling that the party was about to head off.

“Come back soon!” Benjen yelled behind them but Lyanna paid him no mind. Doubtlessly, the morning would soon find him back to his lessons, with the old maester dictating to him the great houses of Westeros.

_ Better him than me _ , she thought somewhat pettily.

Outside the stables, the air was sharp and cool, biting into her face and chilling her lungs with every breath. The storms have scattered a great deal of snow, through which the servants have dutifully shoveled a path that led across the courtyard and outside the walls of the castle. The rare winter sun hit the icy crystals in the snow, making it gleam like thousands of gemstones.

Her lips stretched into a smile almost against her will.

Brandon took the lead, spurring his horse into a fast paced stride that had snow flying everywhere in tandem with the click of his hooves.

Not to be outdone, Lyanna dug her heels into Skinchanger’s sides, urging him to speed up and ignoring the cursing of their guards.

Their father would have their hides when he found out they were racing through the courtyard like this and it only made her grin wider. It was king Rickard’s idea to send the two of them out for the day in the first place so as far as Lyanna was concerned, he only had himself to blame.

Her father was a stern man on best days; his eyes were grey and hard much like the land he ruled over. Yet he understood his wolf-blooded children well. The morning he noticed that the blizzard that had kept them confined to Winterfell’s walls had passed at last, he brusquely told them to get out for the day.

“ _ I don’t want to see your faces around here before sundown. _ ” He had said, seemingly irritated but Lyanna hadn’t been fooled. Rickard Stark never did anything without a reason, least of all when it came to the matter of his children.

Soon, they passed through the bustling streets of Wintertown and onwards, following the road to Castle Cerwyn and then straying off it to follow a shortcut. The snow was deep and thick and they had to slow once they led the horses into it.

It was a slow progress at that point. Lyanna lost track of time between the swaying of horses and the monotonous landscape. Every stalk, tree and bush was covered in white, making her eyes hurt. Riding behind Brandon, her brother’s broad back was a dark spot in her vision, joined by Wyl who rode at the Prince’s side. 

At some point they stopped because Wly noticed fox tracks in the shallow snow beneath the trees and Brandon briefly considered going hunting. 

“I will go on without you if you do.” Lyanna warned him and uncharacteristically, he relented.

“I should have left you at home with Benjen.” There was no bite in his words, Lyanna knew. He had told her the same thing over and over before, yet for years now she had been his constant companion on these kinds of rides. “Martyn, at this rate we won’t be home by sundown.”

The older man shook his head.

“I’ve travelled this path many times, your grace. Even with the snow, it should be a one day’s ride.”

By the time she noticed the shapes of the approaching village, her cheeks had gone numb with cold and her fingers shivered through the thick leather gloves. Above them, the skies began to lazily shower snowflakes, a far cry from the violent flurry of the storm that raged across the North for the past moon.

Tired of watching them melt in her hair, she pushed the hood of her coat further on her face.

“Careful now.” Wyl warned once they headed near the first houses. He had dismounted and was now leading his horse from the ground, boots breaking the thin layer of ice that collected on the hastily cleared pathway. “We must try not to get recognised.”

The statement surprised Lyanna. 

“We’re a couple hours’ ride from Winterfell, what’s the harm?”

It was Martyn who answered her, his voice a low rumble.

“It’s not safe, Princess. Your father’s enemies would see you and your siblings dead.”

It was nothing she hadn’t heard before. It was a lesson her father made sure to imprint on her well. 

“ _ The people we are ruling over have bent their knees to the Starks for thousands of years, _ ” he had told her. “ _ But out there, we are one kingdom, out of seven. They will have no mercy for you because each of them would rather see their flags flying over our land and one rival less to worry about.” _

Despite this, neither Lyanna nor her siblings had ever experienced any attempts on their lives and the King had gone against his own words when he sent his son to be fostered in the Eyrie under the King of the Vale.

She imagined if it was safe enough for Ned in the Vale, surrounded by southerners and enjoying a companionship with the Storm Prince, then she shouldn’t be in danger while in her own kingdom.

_ But Ned is a man _ , her reason reminded her. Her family would never put it plainly like that but Lyanna was observant enough to notice what wasn’t being spoken.

“My father’s enemies have always existed.” She reasoned evenly, trying to keep her mood from souring. “We have never shied from visiting the people.”

Martyn kept silent to that, mouth forming a grim line. It frustrated her to the core, filling her with nervous energy that had her wanting to step closer to the man and shake him by the collar until he relented; an impulse very unbefitting for a princess.

Irritated, Lyanna looked to Brandon for support instead.

Her brother was looking solemnly to the side. He looked so much like their father at that moment, the uncompromising frost falling onto his sharp, handsome features. His grey eyes traded the falling snowflakes without interest.

“They’re right, Lya,” he told her and there was a quiet anger in his words, directed not at her but at some faraway target, concealed from her sight, “it’s not safe now. Father’s been getting ravens from White Harbour. Those thrice-cursed Ironborn have been -” he stopped and shook his head.

“Your grace -” Martyn spoke quietly, a warning in his voice. “Your father-”

“-Yeah, yeah.” Brandon waved him off. “I know. We can’t talk about it. We've reached the inn anyway.”

It was true; the old logs that formed the outer walls of the inn have neared in the span of their conversation without Lyanna even noticing. She allowed Wyl to help her dismount, too busy thinking about what she’s just heard to think of her pride.

The implications of it felt like frost settling in her bones. There was only one thing that ravens from White Harbour concerning the Iron Islanders could mean but-

-Father hadn’t told her about any Ironborn raids happening recently. 

_ Did he tell Benjen? _ She wondered,  _ or Ned, solemn Ned, who isn’t even in the North?  _

It made her want to scream and shout until they knew of her displeasure. She was a Stark too, damn them all, and she wanted to know what was happening in her lands.

The rational part of her told her to hold her tongue.  _ You don’t have the whole story _ , she reminded herself, trying to quiet the treacherous anger warming her under her furs. It only partially worked; she was far too offended over being brushed off without an explanation to return to her previous good mood.

More than that, she was frustrated by the knowledge that even should she voice her thoughts, it would have done no good. A princess’ voice was made for pleasantries and songs, not for being heard, she had come to learn, and certainly not for speaking her mind.

Mulishly, she was quiet once they entered the building. When Wyl offered to take her coat she shook her head silently, pointedly looking away. It was childish, she knew, but she couldn’t help the impulse.

_ I don’t want to talk to you. _

Fortunately, the men got the message. Or more likely, the guards did and Brandon didn’t care either way. She didn’t miss the way her brother’s sharp eyes travelled to the ample bosom of the serving maid the moment she walked past them.

_ For Gods’ sake. _

Diverting her attention away, she observed the inside of the inn.

The ceiling was low and creaked frequently under the feet of the innkeeper’s family living upstairs. A simple red wooden rug covered most of the ground, but it was by now trampled with dirt and melting snow to the point of being a moody brown. 

There were few occupants; smallfolk, she gathered, probably the villagers as the blizzard didn’t allow for much travel. They were dressed in simple cloaks and tunics, gap-toothed and occasionally missing fingers or parts of their faces from the cruel northern winters. Despite the lackluster attendance, the atmosphere was lively; a bard was strumming along an old lute made from red oak and a couple people were dancing to the tune.

Lyanna allowed the men to lead her to a table in the corner and waited with Wyl and Brandon while Martyn went to speak with the innkeeper in private. 

Her brother tapped his foot impatiently and stretched his neck to look over their heads, doubtlessly tracking the maid’s movements across the room. Her temper flared in disgust.

“Would you stop that?” She hissed, kicking him sharply in the chin under the table. 

He shot her a betrayed look.

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

That was the last straw. Lyanna took a deep breath and was about to give him a piece of mind when Martyn returned.

“We will be getting a hot meal soon; good quality. The innkeeper is going to slaughter a goose. He was…  _ very excited _ but agreed to make your presence here a secret.”

She huffed, annoyed that she had been interrupted. 

Despite her stubborn silence, time passed fast amids the lively chatter. She allowed Brandon to drag her onto the dancefloor when the bard started singing the Bear and the Maiden Fair, though it was more for her brother’s sake; her mood had been insolubly ruined.

_ And it was such a good morning too _ , she bemoaned to herself once they returned to the table. The first clear morning in Gods knew how long, and she couldn’t even enjoy it.

All too soon, the maid came in carrying ale and the innkeeper sauntered in carrying the roasted goose not long afterwards.

“It is an honor to have the royal family in my humble inn.” He babbled, almost bouncing on his toes in excitement. 

Brandon flashed him the same charming smile he used to make ladies sway.  _ The face of the heir _ , Lyanna thought.

“Of course. It is our duty to see how the people of the North are doing after a storm this fierce.”

The older man nodded his head so enthusiastically it was in danger of falling off. His whole face was red and despite the chill Lyanna could see him sweating.

“Yes, yes,. It was an awful storm, your grace. But people here are strong. I’ve survived many winters, a blizzard is nothing!” He paused for breath. “But this was a fierce one, a fierce one for sure. My wife didn’t sleep a wink for days with how it howled. We woke up to snow up to our windows and Old Tom’s roof had caved in. He froze to death, the poor man, him and his daughter and all three of his grandchildren.”

“That’s awful.” Lyanna’s heart ached at the thought of the tragedy, though she didn’t know who Old Tom was. All of the sudden, a realisation had snuck up on her: how many more stories like these had taken place all over the North in the past moon?

She had been so busy bemoaning the fact she had been trapped inside Winterfell, she hadn’t even considered how the common folk were faring, she realised. It was a sobering thought.

“Is there anything we can do to help?”

Across the table, her brother shot her a subtle look without dropping his pleasant smile for a moment. A warning not to be too generous, but not a prohibition of the offer; if she hadn’t spoken up, he probably would have done the same.

“Her grace is too kind.” The old man hastily bowed, his whisker-like beard flying with the earnest intensity of his movements. “I would never dare ask anything but -” he started carefully “-there has been quite a bit of damage in our village. We will rebuild, of course but materials are expensive and hard to get in winter.”

“Of course.” Lyanna agreed, retrieving the small pouch she had tied around her neck earlier that morning, just in case. She counted the money fast and furrowed her brows. “Would thirty gold pieces suffice?”

“ _ Thirty gold pieces? _ ” The owner sputtered. His red face rapidly lost colour and he was once again bowing profusely. “Her grace is too kind.”

Taking this as a confirmation, she passed him the pouch, mindful of keeping the action concealed from the others in the inn.

“You need to use this money to rebuild the village and feed the people though.” She made her voice sharp and uncompromising, trying to copy the tone her father used when giving orders. “Do you swear it by the old gods?”

“I swear.” 

The breathed promise was enough for her and she leaned back in her seat, quirking her lips in a slight smile of dismissal. The roasted goose on the table was tempting her and her stomach suddenly reminded her she hadn’t eaten since morning.

The innkeeper lingered, his thick meaty fingers twitching with hesitation.

“Was there anything else you’d like to ask of us?” Brandon asked, sharply but not unkindly. Never the one to care much about what the others thought, he was already helping himself to a nicely browned goose wing. 

Privately, Lyanna thought he conveniently stopped caring once the serving maid left but she knew when to pick her battles. Following his lead, she leaned over the table to cut off a piece for himself before he took all the good bits for himself.

“There is the matter of -” the man stopped himself, biting his lip. “-Your grace will think me mad or superstitious.”

Her brother raised a dark eyebrow, making the other clear his throat awkwardly.

“During the storm, a couple days ago, there was a terrible noise, I can’t describe it. Betty, that’s my oldest daughter swore she saw something move behind the clouds. Now, I told her she was dreaming but working here, I hear a lot of things. A couple others, trustworthy people all of them, said they saw the same.” He dropped his voice for the suspense. “They say during the storm, an ice dragon awakened and set off to find its rider, so they can bring back the Long Night.”

Lyanna put down her fork, interested but across the table Brandon snorted dryly.

“There is no such thing as ice dragons.The storm was quite loud and snow being blown around creates odd shadows.” 

The innkeeper bit his lip again, nervously.

“If your grace says so. But people are superstitious and they don’t feel safe. They say something landed in the woods, though how they know that I know not, as none of them were willing to enter them today.”

“You shouldn’t waste your Prince’s time with such tales.” Martyn intervened in a stern tone, his face covered in shadows.

“Of course, of course. I apologise your grace, it was never my intention to - that is, to say, I don’t personally believe in any of these rumors -”

Brandon waved him off.

“No harm done. Don’t worry, I will personally prove it to you that there are no ice dragons in the woods so you will be able to rest easily.”

Lyanna looked at her brother in surprise. Next to her, Wyl tensed.

“Your grace, that is that truly wise? Your father-”

“-My father, the King, trusts me to ensure the wellbeing of his people. Where’s the harm, Wyl? It’s just a bunch of rumors.” His voice was sharp and allowed no arguments. 

The innkeeper bent deeply at the waist, muttering thanks beneath his breath even as he left. How the man could even hope to claim to be unafraid of the rumors was beyond Lyanna.

Once he vanished, Brandon returned back to his goose, offhandedly addressing Wyl’s concerns.

“It’s a bunch of horseshit, his story. Commoners will believe anything.”

Still, the guards looked ill at ease, glancing at each other.

“We will need to hurry if we want to return before sundown.” Was all that Martyn said at last, the words almost spat through gritted teeth.

They couldn’t argue against Brandon, she realised bitterly. If it were her who suggested this, she would have been shot down in an instant. But Brandon was the crown prince and more importantly, a man, so they had no choice but to listen.

Despite the bitterness that was still boiling in her chest, Lyanna found herself gobbling her portion in a manner that would have elicited stern reminders from her father. She was not suited to sitting still in one place for long and already the prospect of new adventures brightened her mood.

She fantasized about being on horseback again, cool air on her skin and wind in her hair. With Skinchanger swaying beneath her and the open plains before her, she was sure the irritation would leave her; she was determined to have fun today, before she had to return to the castle and the maester and the studying and other unpleasant burdens of her status. The thought of it repulsed her with memory of a long moon spent with only dusty old books and an even dustier old maester still fresh in her mind.

_ Just one good day _ , she prayed.  _ After this hellish moon I deserve one good day. _

Heeding Martyn’s advice, her brother finished quickly, which was a rarity from him. Brandon liked to enjoy life; savour the food, savour the ale and savour the ladies, his friends joked when they thought she wasn’t listening.

They snuck out inconspicuously and the sound of chatter and lute soon faded in freshly fallen snow. This time, Lyanna noticed the signs of damage on the houses; broken beams and caved in roofs. She chided herself for missing it the first time around.

Brandon boldly led his horse into the thick snow, leading them into the part of the forest the innkeeper had pointed out to them. He sat tall and his eyes were alight with arrogant determination. In that moment he was the very image of the heir people expected him to be; handsome, commanding and reckless.

Lyanna followed quietly, secretly glad nobody thought to send her home. 

In a way, her brother’s obvious excitement was infectious. She felt herself slowly forgetting the slight that has stained her mood, getting lost in grand visions of adventures the likes of which got portrayed in songs.

Her excitement slowly waned as they ventured further and further into the forest, with nothing to show for it. The trees protected the ground from most of the snow though so their pace was faster. 

She could see her brother’s interest dissipating into the open air when they encountered a clearing full of broken trees. The plants were thrown in all directions, carelessly as if discarded by a giant and the snow was trampled and strewn with ash. Lyanna felt a sense of unease as she took in the destruction, which seemed to go on for acres.

“So this is where the ice dragon supposedly landed.”

Brandon didn’t seem concerned, idly guiding his stallion through the broken branches, filling the silent woods with eerie snapping noise. His mouth twisted in an amused sneer.

“Trees break under snow all the time.”

His words lit a flame of indignation in her chest.

“Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you’ve already decided there was no such thing as ice dragons?”

Skinchanger nifty stepped over a trunk, flicking his ears uneasily. It didn’t escape her notice. The horse was temperamental but she trusted his senses more than her own.

“You’ve been listening to too many of Old Nan’s tales.” 

His tone was harmlessly mocking; she knew her brother well enough to know he liked to tease her at any given opportunity. But more than that, she knew him enough to know that she would achieve nothing because Brandon had made his mind on the matter.

She huffed and clutched the reigns in irritation.

“At least I listen to people. Father would be half as grey if you didn’t insist on running off with your pack of followers every chance you get.”  _ And your whores _ , she almost added belatedly, but bit her tongue. 

_ You can’t win here _ , she reminded herself. The defeat tasted bitter on her tongue, a familiar brew of misery. How many more times would she need to contain herself and her temper because her brother could not?

On her left, Wyl rode closer, his face hard and tense.

“Your grace, while snow does sometimes break trees, it is odd that this should happen only in this one spot. On top of that, the way the trunks are bent, it doesn’t seem like they collapsed under a weight peacefully.”

Lyanna observed the clearing again and found herself understanding his tension. The trees were scattered on all sides, trunks snapped in half and torn clean off but the damage got worse towards the middle of the clearing symmetrically. While the trees on the sides were simply broken and damaged, the forest was nearly completely gone about an arrow’s flight to the inside. Whatever remains there were left, were buried under the snow that had fallen in the past couple days.

_ The innkeeper’s daughter saw something move through the clouds _ , she remembered. She bit the tip of her glove, chewing on cold leather.

Old Nan had spoken of ice dragons when talking about the Long Night. They were ghastly, pale creatures that rose with the horrors beyond the Wall and melted when they died. Larger than their Valyrian kin, they breathed deadly chill instead of flames but brought doom upon men all the same.

“Don’t tell me you believe in children’s tales now too. Ice dragons don’t exist, any good maester will tell you as much.” 

Never the one to be held back, Brandon stubbornly headed further into the clearing and dismounted.

“Ice dragons might not.” Wly agreed, following him. “But regular dragons do. I’ve seen Harrenhall before, your grace. The Black Dread and his rider were very much real.”

Brandon poked through the snow, seemingly in search of something to prove him right.

“Yet I don’t see a dragon. If anything landed here, it probably already flew off.” 

His words did nothing to reassure the older man.

“It is still dangerous. We promised his majesty-”

Those were the wrong words to pick. Lyanna saw her brother’s eyes gleam with anger and internally winced. He was prideful enough that the reminders of their father assigning them protection achieved nothing but provoking his temper.

Brandon seemed to be about to argue, his mouth already open and Lyanna prepared for the harsh words that were going to spill out when something caught his attention.

“-Wait,” he ended up saying, pointing at something in the snow. “Look.”

Lyanna strained to see what the dark spot was when he reached and picked it up gingerly. Dangling between his thumb and his pointer finger was a dark glove.

“This is not common leather.” 

Taking his cue, Martyn rode closer and dismounted besides him, inspecting the glove more closely.

“Dragon leather.” He confirmed, his frown cutting a deep crease into his forehead.

It was an unspoken understanding between them; where there was a glove there was a rider. Wild dragons were one thing; descendants of the beasts Targaryens had brought into Westeros were not exactly common but not unheard of either. 

There was only one place in the world that wore dragon leather like that.

Only one question remained; what was a Valyrian dragonlord doing in the North amidst a blizzard?

“Maybe they just got lost.” She suggested optimistically.

Brandon snorted. “Well if this was an attempt at conquest, it was a piss poor one. It looks like it was a hard landing; the only thing this dragonlord conquered was the ground.” He paused, thinking about his joke. “Or maybe rather, the ground conquered him.” 

“The King must be notified at once.” Wyl worried his lower lip between his teeth. “It could have been a scout that got trapped in the storm.”

Her brother stared at the glove in his hand as if he wanted to shake it until it revealed its secrets. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm and commanding, a tone Lyanna and Benjen liked to call his prince-voice.

“Let’s look around for a bit first to see if they’re truly gone and to see if we can get more clues on what happened. I don’t want to worry my father unnecessarily by jumping to conclusions on a matter this important.”

The guards did not argue with that, swayed either by the logic in his argument or by the authority he exuded. 

Climbing back into their saddles, they circled around the clearing while the sun steadily declined. It was an unspoken agreement that what they were doing was worth being late for.

Lyanna’s fingers and cheeks had long since grown numb with cold as the warmth steadily leaked out of the air but she didn’t mind. Her mind was abuzz with the possibilities and though the situation was dangerous, she didn’t feel frightened as much as intrigued.

Dragons were a common presence in songs ever since their riders first expressed interest in Westeros. Though songs praising the glory of Aegon Targaryen and his sister-wives had fallen out of favour of nobility after the Seven Kingdoms split, many still remained, clearly inspired by the events. When she was younger, Lyanna had favoured the song about Baela the Brave and her dragon, Moondancer, though the tune was sad and morose.

Benjen used to tease her for it, but to her, the sordid end of the last Targaryen to ever call herself a Queen had its own sense of glory to it, as much as the tale of Brave Danny Flint. Not that she expected her brothers to understand such things; tales of courageous kings, princes and knights were plentiful. 

She wondered what it would be like to see a dragon. Maybe Brandon would have to slay it and then she would ask him for one of its scales to wear around her neck, a display of her brother’s bravery. The old worm of a maester would find it unseemingly, surely, but her father would approve.

Secretly, too presumptuous for her to even admit to herself, she wondered what it would be like if it were her who did the job, who took her brother’s sword and slayed the monster plaguing her lands. Without permission, her imagination ran wild with it.

Brandon would be embarrassed at first sure, but eventually he would be proud of her for it and speak of her achievement with the same tone he used to call her the best rider in the North. And her father, she imagined, would be proud as well. Stern and grim, Rickard Stark would smile at her and permit her to train with her brothers, seeing her potential-

-she smothered that dream. It would never happen, she knew, a touch of sadness swelling in her chest. Life was not a song; it didn’t have greatness in spades for most people. Though everyone wished otherwise, most would live and die without leaving a note in the history books.

Just like her mother had; it was rare and getting rarer that a Northerner remembered the kind, gentle Lyarra Stark, even though she had been their queen for a decade. 

Lyanna didn’t want to share her mother’s fate. She wrapped her furs tighter around herself, swept in a sudden chill.

_ If only snow didn’t cover all tracks _ . The air had grown colder fast and her cheeks were beginning to sting. Already she was dreading the ride back to Winterfell.

She recalled sneaking out of the castle with Benjen during the blizzard. The snow had blown so fast and so fiercely that their footprints would fill up and vanish almost before their eyes. At that moment, she had understood why they warned about getting lost in a storm like that; if you were unfamiliar with the terrain, you would have gotten lost very quickly and be unable to follow your own steps back to where you started.

She doubted even a dragon could help with that and shivered in sympathy.

Brandon’s plan had them riding around the scar that marred the forest in circles that slowly became wider and wider. It was a tactic both Wyl and Martyn reluctantly approved of because it was the only option short of splitting up that let them search a large amount of land thoroughly.

Eventually, all of them were forced to resort to the additional furs the guards had prepared for the journey. Lyanna felt like a pillow under the heavy bearskin but at least it kept her warm even as the air steadily chilled and snowflakes began to fall heavily from the sky.

“The weather is souring.” Martyn commented, throwing a look at the sky. 

“I thought the maester predicted a clear day.” Lyanna had no love for the old man but his predictions regarding the weather usually held true.

Martyn hummed. “I’ve lived in the North for decades, your grace, and learned to watch for all signs of storms yet this very morning I would have said the same. A bad omen, I fear.”

_ A bad omen _ .

Lyanna didn’t like the sound of that.

She looked to her brother uncertainly. Against all expectations, Brandon rode ahead in silence. His bright grey eyes flickered side to side in a single-minded search. 

_ He won’t give up _ , she realised. 

Neither cold nor darkness could stop Brandon when he set his mind on something; he would see it to the end no matter what. She could only hope he would find what he was looking for soon.

The Gods were on her side that day because it was not long afterwards her brother stopped his chestnut stallion abruptly. 

By then, the sun had almost set, its fading light setting the frozen landscape aflame. The forest was thick and dark where they stopped, providing shelter from the powder-like snowflakes that came scattering from above.

It was there, half buried beneath the snow that they found the subject of their search. 

What appeared to be a dark figure slouched against a tree slowly turned to be a young man clad in black. Lyanna might have mistaken him for a man of the Watch if he wasn’t so obviously not of Westerosi origin.

His hair was cut short, as was the habit for Valyrian men, but there was no mistaking the way it gleamed like molten silver in the light of the setting sun. 

Even as they dismounted and came nearer, the stranger didn’t move. He was deathly still, unaware of what was happening around him. The freezing cold had soaked the colour from his face, making him look like a strange, pale corpse.

“Is he dead?” The words came out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

Martyn approached slowly, prodding the man with his foot then sinking into a crouch when he didn’t move.

“Still breathing.” He confirmed. “He probably got caught in the blizzard.”

Brandon leaned closer to inspect him and Lyanna followed suit, heart beating in her chest.

“It’s a wonder he hasn’t frozen to death in these clothes.” He commented, voicing what they were both thinking. The strange leather the man was wearing seemed insignificant compared to the furs protecting them from the cold and yet Lyanna could still feel its bite even so.

“It’s dragon leather, your grace.” The guard explained. “They say Valyrians wear it because it protects them not only from fire but from the cold winds when they’re riding their beasts.”

“It hasn’t protected this one from fire.” 

The Valyrian had tried to bandage it with what must have been his cloak but the blizzard had, at some point, undone his efforts. The heavy, dark fabric had slipped loose, revealing blistered and blackened skin, stretching around his left shoulder and vanishing along his arm. The flames had burned the leather straight off.

Martyn frowned.

“Dragonfire, maybe.” He suggested. “It’s one of the few things that can burn through dragon leather.”

Brandon’s handsome face twisted in a grimace.

“A feud between dragonlords would explain much. You’d have to be mad to fly into a blizzard.”

His hand flew to his sword, clutching the handle heavily. It made Lyanna unsettled, unable to shake off the gruesome burns and the unnatural stillness.

“Are you going to kill him?” 

“I should.” There was no hesitation or regret in his voice and it settled into her stomach like a rock.

She opened her mouth to argue when he stood up suddenly, closing his eyes with a sigh.

“-But I’m not going to. All we have right now is speculation; it doesn’t explain what a dragonlord is doing in Westeros. Should he live, this man could answer our questions but if he dies the answers die with him.”

He shot her a glance, amused. “Does my answer please you, sweet sister?”

Lyanna frowned. “There is no honour in killing a defenceless man.”

“Now you sound like Ned. ‘ _As h_ _ igh as honour _ ’, those are Arryn words, not ours - remember that. Those southerners might live differently but this is the North. There is no place for mercy or honour when winter falls.” 

It was Brandon’s mouth that was speaking but the words were their father’s. King Rickard was a just man, but a hard one. Lyanna understood that about him and found it in her to love him nonetheless. She had been educated in the history of their house; she knew how in preparation of an especially hard winter, the North would seek battle with other kingdoms, young men looking for honourable death in combat to lessen the drain on the dwindling food storages.

“One more mouth to feed won’t hurt. The winter is nearly over.” She sneaked a look at the unconscious man, feeling pity for him. “With those injuries, he might yet die even so.”

Despite her words, she wished the Gods would spare him. To tame a dragon and then die like this - what a terrible end.

Above them, wind blew snowflakes in a flurry.


	2. Brandon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Rickard had sat in his study for a long time after the Lord had left. Brandon had the sense not to bother him when he was in the sour mood but the silence worried him. He had seen his father ill-tempered and cold; but never had he known him to be indecisive.
> 
> But he had been receiving unusually many ravens and then there were the Ironborn - he couldn’t fault the man for being weary. The weight of the crown was immense; Brandon was selfishly glad it wasn’t him who was dealing with all this.
> 
> When Father had finally summoned him, his words had been heavy.
> 
> “We have nothing to offer them. Winterfell’s storages will be barely enough to last it’s people alone if the winter doesn’t come to an end soon.”

“Watch your balance.” Brandon ordered sharply as Benjen nearly toppled over swinging his wooden practice sword. After only a couple minutes of practice, his brother was already sweaty and red-faced.

Fixing his footing, he tried the swing again, this time more successfully. 

“You are swinging with just your arms again. You need to put your whole body into it.”

Benjen groaned which turned into coughing. He wiped his forehead. His illness had passed easily enough but it had left a heavy mark on his stamina; even weeks later, exertion made his breath rattle in his chest.

“It’s heavy.” He whined.

_ Gods give me patience _ , Brandon huffed.

“Your  _ wooden _ sword is heavy? Just wait until you get a steel one.”

The morning was cold and slow, making him feel sluggish. Volunteering to help Benjen train had been an impulsive decision and one he was regretting now. He could see the master-at-arms judging him from where he was slouched against one of the beams in the courtyard.

“You want to be a knight, don’t you?” He tried again, trying to wipe the frustration from his tone..

Benjen nodded reluctantly. 

“Knights train every day.” He muttered as if repeating something someone, presumably the master-at-arms, had told him before. 

“Knights train every day.” Brandon agreed, rolling his shoulder until he heard it click. 

_ Damn this weather. _

It had been too long since he had last had a good fight; despite all predictions, the last blizzard had soon been followed by another one and the clouds had yet to go away even days after the snow had stopped, keeping the temperatures low and raising worry amongst the people.

His father was certainly concerned, as the last summer had been awfully short, leading the people of the North to believe it would be followed by an even shorter winter. The food storages in Winterfell were well stocked but Brandon was aware not everyone had this luxury. Already ravens were beginning to arrive from the Karstarks and the Umbers, reporting impending shortages of certain goods should the winter not come to an end in the next couple months and Lord Medger Cerwyn had even taken a half day trip to Winterfell to discuss the issue in person.

King Rickard had sat in his study for a long time after the Lord had left. Brandon had the sense not to bother him when he was in the sour mood but the silence worried him. He had seen his father ill-tempered and cold; but never had he known him to be indecisive.

But he had been receiving unusually many ravens and then there were the Ironborn - he couldn’t fault the man for being weary. The weight of the crown was immense; Brandon was selfishly glad it wasn’t him who was dealing with all this.

When Father had finally summoned him, his words had been heavy.

“ _ We have nothing to offer them _ . _ Winterfell’s storages will be barely enough to last it’s people alone if the winter doesn’t come to an end soon. _ ”

_ Damn it all. _

The words had stuck in Brandon’s head sharp and clear like the ringing of bells, filling him with restless energy. As much as he loved his brother, helping him train wasn’t going to ease the burden that had been weighing on him.

“Ser Rodrik, would you spar with me again? This is a pointless endeavour.”

“Hey!” Benjen protested, offended. Brandon ignored him.

The young knight neared reluctantly. His face was still flushed from their last round.

“If it pleases your grace.”

They barely managed to get into the positions before a guard came, bearing the King’s summons.

With a sight, he tossed the dull tourney sword he had borrowed for the day onto the ground.

“But you’re helping me train.” Benjen protested, seemingly either forgetting his sharp dismissal or taking it in stride. “Can’t it wait?”

Brandon ruffled his hair affectionately, making him squirm.

“Afraid not, little brother. Duty calls.”

Truthfully, he was glad to see his father. Since he had first been briefed on the problems they were faced with, Brandon had struggled in vain to come up with a solution but one thing he was certain on; it was time to act. 

Rickard Stark’s study was spacious and too hot for his liking, with a large hearth assisting the warmth already radiating from the walls. Their mother used to complain about the heat all the time but cold aggravated an old injury the king had received when he was younger so the room was kept warm.

The man in question was prodding the flames with an iron poker when he arrived. He straightened when he saw his son, pushing the greying strands out of his face tiredly.

“Brandon. I see you’ve been training again.”

Brandon winced. He should have changed before he attended to his father but it had slipped his mind in his hurry. Sheepishly, he ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair in a feeble attempt to make himself more presentable.

“I wanted to see how Benjen was progressing.” He explained.

Father didn’t react to his deflection. His face was stony. “I see.” 

Brandon expected him to ask about the youngest sibling’s progress but the man just sighed heavily. 

“That isn’t why I called you here today. There are matters I want to discuss with you. You are my eldest and my heir, I expect you to be knowledgeable about the matters of the North and to react reasonably to them.”

The last part was said with a sharp infliction, aimed clearly at the occasion on the day the news of the latest Ironborn raid arrived. Brandon had paced the length of the study and suggested riding out to deal with the threat multiple times until his father’s patience had worn out for good. 

The memory was a stinging reminder of how short he fell of the heir his father wanted him to be. Against his will, his shoulders tensed and he drew himself taller.

“I won’t disappoint you again.”  _ I hope,  _ he added silently.  _ Gods know I am talented at that, though. _

Father looked on with disapproval.

“You are temperamental, it’s the wolf blood in you. That’s something that’s never going to change, I fear. But you must learn to keep that temper in check if you want to one day bear this crown.”

It was all the lecture the man had prepared for him that day because with that, he stood up and walked to his desk, opening the drawer and pulling out a stack of parchment.

“That is a discussion for another day though. These are the letters I received today.”

There had to be at least a dozen scrolls in there, combining into a frightening mass in Father’s hands. Brandon felt his stomach twist in trepidation, only to be immediately replaced by cold anger.

“Is it the Ironborn?” He demanded. “Father, I could gather the men and-”

“No.” The older man cut him down, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “You will do no such thing. Don’t be reckless.”

_ I did it again,  _ he realised and felt a wave of annoyance at himself. 

“I’m sorry, father.” He bowed his head. “I got ahead of myself. But if it is the Ironborn, I believe it could be done. The Lords are tired of the raids and we will have to deal with them eventually.”

“Eventually, yes. But only a fool would summon an army in the middle of a winter such as this one.” Despite his words, Father’s face softened, a silent acknowledgement. He was frugal with praise but never had any of his children missed his approval. 

“I’ve seen enough winters to know this one is unusual. This time of the year, the winds blow from the north, yet these clouds have rolled from the east, passing from White Harbour to Winterfell in a day, according to Lord Manderly. Your brother writes of similar occurrences in Eyrie. Lord Manderly also reports a rise in strange sailor’s tales. Merchants from the Free Cities are saying that the skies on the other side of the Narrow Sea have been weeping ashes and soot.”

His words rose a wave of memories, faded and vague like candlelight. Old Nan’s voice, describing dark clouds and misty pale figures. The imagery was foggy and crafted entirely in his childhood imagination but it rose waves of uncertainty in his stomach.

“The Free Cities?” He repeated stupidly.

_ How large is this damned storm,  _ he thought but didn’t voice it. He already knew that pretending this was simply a winter storm would be willful naivety.

King Rickard sank into the seat heavily with a sigh of an old man.

“The dragonlord you found, the maester tells me he had suffered from burns. There are few things hot enough that even dragon leather is vulnerable against. I assumed another of his kind had chased him off but now I’m not so certain.”

Brandon frowned. In the past three weeks, their Valyrian visitor didn’t cross his mind often past the initial couple days. Whether from the burns, the cold or a mixture of both, the man had developed a fever and had yet to awaken. Lyanna had taken it upon herself to keep him updated but he had better things to do with his time than dwell upon the state of a stranger.

The things she had spoken of concerned him though. Maester Walys claimed the fever was high enough that the man should be dead a dozen times over and that the burned flesh continued to fester no matter how many times he changed the dressings, yet he clung to life regardless of all expectations.

It was strange and exciting to Lyanna but it made Brandon wary. Valyrians were known for practicing strange arts, but their magic was foreign to him. Even in his brashness, he knew to be careful around what he could not understand.

“Do you think the clouds came from Valyria?”

It would certainly explain the ashes; they say during the Dance, the skies were perpetually blackened for a whole year as the civil war raged across Essos. Westeros had been left alone for the most part but the ruins of King’s Landing were a solemn monument to the scale of the destruction in the east.

It made Brandon uneasy. It was clear that the man they found had come from the skies but there had been no sightings of the dragon since. Maester Walys believed the beast had died in the blizzard but he would not be reassured until the body was found.

Father traced one of the letters with his thumb, forehead creasing in concern.

“Lord Manderly believes they did. He is sending a ship to investigate the matter further but the sailors returning from the east are all saying the same thing - that the horizon is glowing scarlet and men who sail for Valyria never return. Some talk of the ground shaking before the clouds appeared and covered the skies, though admittedly that is not a rarity in that region.”

He paused in consideration.

“I have also received a transcription of the account of a Myrish pirate. He claims to have sailed to the Valyrian peninsula and found it to be shattered and separated from the land by a sea that wasn’t on any maps. His crew had taken to calling it the Smoking Sea.”

“Do you believe that?” Brandon asked dubiously. “Merchants and pirates - they will say anything. It might mean nothing at all.”

“May be so.” The King acknowledged. “But the silence is worrying. Besides the rumors merchants are spreading, there has been no response or news from the Free Cities of any sort. There are dragonlords residing in Volantis at all times but there has been no mention of them returning to their homeland or even taking flight, on this all tales agree. Nor had there been any merchants or ships returning from the Freehold since, which concerns me. The trade between Valyria and the Free Cities didn’t stop so completely even during the Dance.”

“All the more proof that these are just rumors.” He countered. “If Valyrians see no reason to return home, it must be they have no reason to be concerned. And merchants could be held off for multiple reasons.”

“Or they are scared.” Father seemed conflicted. “ Whatever is the caset, the circumstances are most odd so I want to err on the side of caution. I believe our guest might be able to tell us more about that, once he awakens. Until then, it is useless to speculate.”

_ If he awakens, _ went unsaid.

“I suppose the maester is concerned?”

The older man hummed.

“Maester Walys shares my concerns. It was him who brought it to my attention after examining the man.”

Brandon was unsurprised to hear that. The old man was annoying with his lessons but that was nothing compared to his incessant meddling in affairs of the kingdom.

“And what was his counsel?” A hint of bitterness crept into his voice despite his best efforts.

Father gave him a long hard look, clearly unimpressed.

“He agrees waiting is the best thing we can do right now, about all our problems pestering us right now. If the cause of this weather change truly came from Valyria, Walys believes the North is far away enough that it should not persist for long. Lord Manderly also swore to relay whatever information the men he sent to Essos manage to gather so I’m expecting more information to reach us soon.”

_ That was the same man who predicted that the winter was coming to an end _ , Brandon almost said.

“How long do you intend to wait for?” He asked instead.

“Until I can see a possible plan of action.” He sighed. “I know if you had it your way, we’d be marching straight towards Pyke right now, but that would achieve nothing but more bloodshed and wasting what supplies we have left. The winter was hard on everyone, including the Ironborn, it doesn’t surprise me they are resorting to raiding.”

“It doesn’t give them the right.” Brandon fumed. “They ‘ _ do not sow _ ’ but maybe they should consider starting to. It’s nobody’s fault but their own that they are hungry. It’s  _ insulting _ to let them roam freely on the land we’re supposed to be protecting while we do nothing but rot away in our castles.”

Father’s grey eyes were pale and cold, much like the morning itself.

“I am aware. And once the winter ends, I intend to summon the Lords to prepare a defense plan but only a fool would march in this weather for a couple raids. That’s why I also told you not to speak of this; we don’t need people panicking.”

The accusation was sharp and clear.

“I didn’t tell anyone.” He defended, feeling his heart drop into his stomach.

Rickard raised one dark eyebrow.

“Your sister came to complain to me about being kept ignorant on the issue.”

Running a hand through his hair, Brandon wanted to groan.  _ Of course Lyanna has done that.  _

His sister loved pushing boundaries; not causing trouble was simply not in her blood. He swore his life would be so much easier if Lyanna simply learned to bite her tongue.

“I slipped up a bit.” Despite his attempts at dignity, he couldn’t raise his eyes to his father’s gaze. “But she must have pierced it together herself.”

“She has.” Father affirmed. “She was upset you didn’t tell her anything substantial.”

He felt a wave of irritation wash over him, directed at Lyanna. It was so like her to thoughtlessly butt in with her objections, without considering the effects it would have on others.

_ Can she not see how hard I try to keep Father’s favour?  _

But of course, Lyanna could not. The King let her roam wild across the castle and whatever lines he would draw for her she would still cross, with no consequences, such as her sneaky swordplay sessions with Benjen she still believed Father didn’t know about.

Or this new interest in medicine and all things related to Valyria she had developed since the night they returned from their ride. Lyanna had a love for songs, stories and all strange things so he was unsurprised to discover her fascination but he had expected Father to put an end to it sooner.

“It surprises me she has the time to be upset about that, with how occupied her new pet project keeps her.” He commented bitterly.

For once, the maester’s meddling seemed to work in his favour as the man simply sighed, already aware what Brandon was speaking about. He rubbed his forehead in exasperation.

“Your sister has a gentle heart. Besides, Gods know having some more passion for studying won’t kill her.”

_ A gentle heart,  _ Brandon thought with irritation.  _ As if she won’t get bored in a week once she realises she isn’t looking at Aegon Targaryen on his way to conquest or some fairytale warlock. _

“This isn’t a bird or a stray puppy she’s found and decided to nurse to health,” he pointed out, annoyed, “but a potential enemy. We can both see that but Lya can’t. She’s still half a child; she can’t bear to see the ill in people.”

Rickard Stark leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard.

“What would you have me do then? Forbid her from assisting the maester? Lock her out of the library?” He sighed. “These are dangerous days, Brandon. I would rather have Lyanna keep to the castle where someone can keep an eye on her than have her roam around the way she is used to. If her curiosity in the Valyrian is keeping her busy, I will allow her to indulge.”

There was sound reasoning behind Father’s words but it didn’t quite put out the fires of his envy because while Lyanna got to follow her current fancy, he got saddled with a thousand responsibilities as a way to keep him busy. 

“I have different expectations for you than for your sister.” His conflict must have shown on his face. “I understand this is difficult for you. You are much more willful than she is but when I die it will be you I will pass the North to, while Lyanna’s duties will extend to being someone’s Lady and wife. An honourable position - but a lot easier than being a king.”

The reminder sat ill with Brandon.

“That won’t be for many years.”

Father’s face softened. “If Gods are merciful.” 

_ Gods have been anything but merciful lately _ , Brandon thought but he kept his doubts to himself.

“Ned asked about you.” The King continued, changing the topic. “He says your last couple letters have been sparse.”

Brandon shrugged. He loved his brother but there was very little he could say on the topic of Storm Prince’s latest achievement and lately it seemed that was all Ned would talk about. 

“There hasn’t been all that much happening lately, neither here nor in the Vale.”

Father gave him a light smile, an unusual expression on his stern face. 

“Prince Robert has certainly been busy, I hear. Your brother described his hunting trip with Lord Royce in detail.”

Brandon’s face nearly split with mirth when he realised even his father was joining in on teasing his brother. It was a source of much amusement between the three siblings to read Ned’s letters aloud, in the tone of a gushing maiden.

“He certainly made sure everyone knew how Robert killed a stag and won the bet with prince Elbert even though the present Lords of the Vale bet against him.”

He was acquainted with the Falcon Prince himself, having beaten him in a drinking contest the last time Ned came to visit. King Jon had sent a whole party to accompany him and Brandon still recalled how it was Ethan Glover’s idea to take young prince Elbert for a tour that started and ended at the closest inn.

Taking the way he handled his drink in consideration, Brandon was not at all surprised Robert Baratheon beat him at hunting too.

“Robert seems like a sensible young man.” Father considered. “Then of course, his father has always had a good head on his shoulders too.”

He seemed to be deep in thought. Probably reminiscing of his youth, Brandon guessed.

Back when Rickard Stark was newly crowned the King in the North, he had led his men South exactly once; to aid Ormund Baratheon in his struggle against Tion Lannister. The King in the West had perished at King’s Landing and was succeeded by his younger brother Tytos, which had been considered a great victory to many as the younger man had lacked his brother’s ambition and wit.

Even though the stability ended when the crown passed to King Tywin, the Starks hadn’t intervened in the matters of the South again in the span of Brandon’s lifetime.

_ Until _ , he supposed,  _ Father sent Ned to the Vale. _

The decision baffled him still but it seemed like his little brother was enjoying himself. He had never known Ned to be talkative or good at making friends but if his stream of enthusiastic letters on the topic of Robert Baratheon was any indication, somehow Jon Arryn had managed to instill in him even those skills.

But as much as Rickard kept him updated on the matters of the North, he didn’t bother to explain to his son any of their dealings with the South. Brandon had tried, multiple times, to pry but the plots and the politics between the Kingdoms made his head ache. In the end, both he and his father had agreed that that was something he would be informed about when the time came.

“Go now.” Father urged. “Don’t leave Ben waiting for too long. Good knights need practice.”

Brandon hesitated.

“Is this all you wished to talk to me about?”

The man looked out of the window, a sadness to his gaze.

“It is for now. I need to write replies to the Lords, that will probably keep me busy for the day. I don’t think I will be able to join you for dinner today.”

Brandon swallowed.

“I understand. Ben and Lya will be disappointed.”

Father gave him a look that said he read right through him and Brandon felt his lips tug into a wolfish smile.

“Don’t worry, I will keep them busy. Benjen isn’t leaving that training yard until his arms are unable to lift the sword and I will have Lyanna help Ethan with my armour.”

Father chuckled lightly. His tired face seemed youthful for a moment.

“And don’t forget to write to Ned.” He reminded him.

“Certainly, I will let him know that Benjen is feeling better and that I haven’t gone mad during the blizzards. And that Lyanna is still half horse.”

With that, he left his father to his work and directed himself towards the training yard, thinking about the conversation he just had.

Halfway through the covered bridge, he paused to look at the sky. The thick dark clouds covered it as far as the eye could see, extending way past the horizon. In the time he spent in the King’s study, soft snowflakes began swirling downwards in a leisurely fashion.

He shivered, having become used to the warmth of his father’s cellar during the duration of their conversation.

_I could use a drink right now._ _Or a good fuck._

But not even Brandon would dare engage in that in Winterfell where everyone knew him and his siblings could walk in on him. He huffed a breath of frustration. Life had seemed so much easier during his time at Barrowton, when he could spend his days riding in the Rills and getting drunk with the men.

That was when he had been a boy though and time had a way of loading one’s shoulders with burdens that hadn’t been there before. It had happened to him and, he assumed, it would come upon his siblings too.

_ Maybe Lyanna has the right idea.  _

Finding something to do that’d take his mind off everything would be a difficult task certainly. He heaved a sigh.

_ First, Benjen. Then I’ll write a letter to Ned,  _ he told himself.  _ And then I’ll find that godforsaken maester and ask him for his counsel.  _

For as much as the man annoyed him, there was no denying he was quite knowledgeable. Should they march on the Ironborn come spring, Brandon wanted to be ready for the challenge. He was good with a sword, he could say as much without boasting, but there was more to battle than just fighting.

If his father called the banners, he would need to prove himself before Lords both great and small, a fact that scared him just as much as it excited him. 

He leaned on the bridge railing heavily. In his mind’s eye, he could almost see it, the dense river of men streaming through the castle gates. Some of them had ridden to war with his father; the others had heard about it from their own fathers and grandfathers. To all of them, he was a good and righteous King while Brandon was still an inexperienced princeling.

_ They could have the same respect for me, if he let me take command. _

But the thought seemed shallow even to him and he discarded it callously. It was not their respect he wished for. The itch he felt in his mind had no name but he was familiar enough with its burn to know it was not a desire for glory.

“What do I want, then?” He asked nobody in particular.

The skies were silent and he sighed. Benjen was waiting for him in the training yard and the rest of the day still loomed ahead, endlessly long and filled with duties to fulfil. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have this out sooner but it was not to be.  
> I needed to establish some of the consequences that came with the aftermath of the Doom so here's a Brandon POV.  
> Next up, I want to finally get to Rhaegar's no good, very bad, kinda sucky day.


	3. Rhaegar I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world around him was burning.
> 
> Dancing shadows flickered in and out of his vision, strange and humanoid and draped in ash. Their whispering voices rolled over him like waves, bouncing off one another until they merged into one unintelligible mixture.
> 
> Rhaegar’s head ached. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop his mind from spinning in circles. His thoughts seemed to be made of water, slipping past his fingers before he could grasp them.

The world around him was burning.

Dancing shadows flickered in and out of his vision, strange and humanoid and draped in ash. Their whispering voices rolled over him like waves, bouncing off one another until they merged into one unintelligible mixture.

Rhaegar’s head ached. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop his mind from spinning in circles. His thoughts seemed to be made of water, slipping past his fingers before he could grasp them.

He had no sense of time in that state; dimly he was aware of shivers running through his body and the terrible cold that caused them but just as often, he would be overtaken by the sensation of boiling from inside out. 

The first thing he was aware of was standing knee deep in a body of water, dark and dreadfully still. The fog in his mind cleared a bit, allowing him to recognise the place.

When he had been a boy, his mother had taken him to the Temple of Many Gods to pay respects to the family lost to the Fourteen Flames. He remembered it starkly as it had been the first and the only time Lady Rhaella had done so.

Unlike the rest of Valyrian buildings, the temple was not grandiose or decorated at all. _Luxury is not the way of the Gods_ , his mother had said. Indeed, the black stone it had been made of was simple and plain, though beautiful in its own way. Inside, an altar was elevated under a pool of dark water. On it stood a statue of a dragon’s skull the size of a Ghiscari war elephant. It was trapped in a grotesque snarl and carved out of dragonglass. Its eyes were polished rubies the colour of fresh blood that seemed to follow you around the room.

As a child, he had been fascinated. He had crawled as close as the railing around the altar would allow and watch his warped reflection in the rubies while his mother prayed. The ancient magic in the room had called to his blood like the moon called the tides.

Now, facing the same statue, he felt nothing other than bone-deep terror. 

The bloody eyes of the beast seemed to be filled with suffering and accusation.

 _Coward,_ it called him, glittering in the dim light, its many teeth flashing.

Guiltily, he scrambled backwards, looking frantically for a way out only to find himself paralysed. 

_Traitor._

Dark as a starless night, the surface of the water was peaceful and without reflection.

He could smell smoke.

The light reflected faintly off the sharp edges of the carved dragonglass, giving the skull a deformed look. 

His mother’s eyes were sad as she lit the candles. Their light cast strange dancing shadows but seemed not to fill the room in any way.

“May the Gods grant peace to the dead.”

 _The dead, dead, dead_ , the room echoed. _Dead, dead._

The smoke that filled the room got thicker, making his eyes water and filling his lungs with soot. He tried to gasp for breath but there was no air left to breathe.

_They’re all dead._

The dragon’s eyes bored into him, twin circles burning through the darkness like red-hot iron.

_Why are you here?_

Rhaegar couldn’t answer. His chest felt like it was burning from within and his ears were ringing desperately but his mouth could not make a sound. Whether from terror or smoke, his throat was closed shut.

There was a ripple in the water as a drop hit the surface, the waves flickering like expanding circles and vanishing. Then another.

The rubies ran down the face of the melting statue like bloody tears.

 _Where were you?_ It asked at least. _Why did you leave?_

 _Coward, coward, coward,_ came from the blackened, convulsing creatures laid in the pool and their burned hands reached towards him.

If he had the breath left he would have screamed. When the water pulled him under, the last thing he saw was the dragon skull with its eyeless sockets and crimson-streaked cheeks.

The next thing he knew, he was standing on a balcony, bathed in the light of the fading sun and sucking in air greedily.

His mother stood with her back to him, beholding the city outside, just as she had that day.

“You must leave.” The memory told him.

“I won’t leave you.” He told her fervently, straining against the hands holding him back. In the year that had passed, he had seen this scene often, but the words he spoke were always the same.

Mother turned around and her face was stone, her elegant features holding no warmth for her son. 

“Foolish boy. You will leave or you will die.”

His throat closed up and he shook his head.

“No, he has to be stopped or we will _all_ die, Mother, please-”

Her silver hair swung behind her as she once again turned away and he already knew what she would say.

“Life isn’t a dream, Rhaegar.” She would not look at him. “Nor can you act using dreams as a guide. Your actions have consequences.”

Bracing for what would come next, he tried to stop himself from speaking but his mouth moved on its own.

“I can handle the consequences!” He wanted to see her face, to take her hands and reassure her that it would be alright, he could do what it takes, that he could be strong and protect her from harm, but the faceless guards held him back with their iron-like grip, crushing bones and leaving bruises that would stick around for weeks. Nothing compared to the wounds _she_ would bear from day to day.

Mother grasped the balcony tightly and her voice was sorrowful.

“You don’t _know_ the consequences. You are naive and brash. I don’t know what they promised you but the other families won’t support you after the deed is done. They want to see us fall. They’re _using you to set us up to fall._ You fail to understand, you wouldn’t be the only one paying for your deeds.”

He tried again, desperate for her to understand, to prove and justify his decisions.

“It still needs to be done. He’s going to drag us all down with him.”

“No,” she told him, “but you would. I’ve known your father my whole life. He is cruel and he is violent and he is paranoid - but he is right to be afraid. Everyone who isn’t us is an enemy. I have survived enough tragedies to watch them rejoice every time. I won’t have my son freely giving them more to revel about.”

Her rejection stung like a backhand across his face.

“You are going to die if this keeps on. How many more children do you think it’ll take before the gods take you too?” His words were cruel but she was unflinching.

“Leave.” She told him again. “Before he finds out I let you go.”

 _I’m not afraid to die_ , he wanted to tell her, _I die every night in my sleep,_ but the words melted on his tongue, turned into ash and regret. What came out was not a bold declaration but the meek pleading tone of a child, trying in vain to offer an explanation.

“I was trying to save us.” 

Mother didn’t look at him. The skies turned crimson and the buildings outside crumbled one by one but she didn’t move.

 _No,_ he wanted to protest, numb with terror as he was dragged away. _That’s not how it went._

But this was how his dreams always went. He had been dreaming of flames, destruction and melted earth for as long as he could remember. Mother used to believe him when he was younger, would run her hands through his hair and soothe him but as years went on, her patience had run out. 

He hadn’t cared then, foolishly believing he could stop this even without her support.

“You failed.”

The walls around her collapsed and fell away but his mother stood tall and proud, even as her hair caught fire, silver streaked with burning orange. He reached for her helplessly, struggling against the force that held him.

Her eyes met his one last time, amethyst peeking out of blackened flesh before her form puckered and vanished amidst smoke and fire, leaving only deathly silence in her wake.

The next thing he knew, the grip on his arms let go and he was in the air, holding onto a dragon’s neck.

_You failed, you failed, you failed._

Her words rang in his ears, drunk with regret and relief.

In front of him, a cloud of ash extended as far as the eye could see.

Tyraxes did not want to enter the mass, he could tell but he didn’t care what the dragon wanted. His heart was hammering in his chest and he already knew what he would see.

For all the times he had seen this even happen, he had never imagined he would be on the outside.

He _wasn’t supposed_ to be on the outside.

_You failed, you failed, you failed._

_Please,_ he begged any gods that would listen, not knowing exactly what he was begging for. 

_Coward,_ called the black dragon wrapped in smoke and the water rippled and hissed as it met melted stone.

The wave of smoke rose higher and higher, choking him even as he tried to fly over it. Blood was rushing in his ears, louder and fiercer than the dragon’s screeches. 

_Fly low, not high, over the water where the smoke is thinner,_ his instincts told him but he refused.

This time, he would not turn around. He would face his death with bravery, witness the terror of the doom the way he was meant to.

 _“You don’t know the consequences.”_ His mother’s words rang in his ears, sorrowful and melodic.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

The cloud of ash lightened, allowing him to breathe and revealing unclear shapes on the ground. Tyraxes descended gracefully but it was not the topless towers of Valyria that awaited beneath.

Even now, Rhaegar recognised the ruins of Maegor’s Palace, seated on the banks of Fourteen Flames. The building had once been tall and majestic, built from the blood and bones of hundreds of slaves but the accident had reduced it to rubble.

An old man was waiting for him at the bottom of what used to be Visenya’s tower, his pale braid blowing in the wind, filling the air with the jingle of bells. His eyes were Tyraxes’ eyes, Rhaegar thought despite the absurdity of the sentence.

He didn’t remember dismounting but suddenly he was standing before him, watching the red dragon fly off into the distance, struggling with every flap of her wings.

_No, come back!_

“The last of Rhaenyra’s hatchlings.” The old man spoke in his raspy voice. He was dressed richly but his shoulders were hunched with age and sadness.

 _The last, the last,_ the palace agreed, faceless shades passing through its ruined walls.

“I need to go.” He told his great-grandfather. His mother was waiting for him, with Viserys and Father, somewhere in the city.

Aegon tilted his head, making the bells in his braid jingle.

“Go where? You belong here, with us.”

 _Here,_ repeated the souls of the Palace, their voices echoing off the ruined walls. Once, they had been made of black stone and stood proud and tall, built on the orders of the Conqueror herself. The fire that had ravaged the building on the day of his birth had deformed them, making the material fold in the shapes of a thousand brutalised faces, dislodged jaws caught mid screams.

He took a step back and the ground beneath his feet groaned oddly. Nausea crawled up his throat as he chanced a look downwards. 

The eye-less sockets of a human skull stared back, laid stark on the field of charred bones. 

_“It took hundreds of slaves to build Maegor’s Palace.”_ His father had explained once, when he was younger and saner, his mind not yet overtaken by darkness and fears. _“They gave their lives for our glory.”_

“You belong here.” Aegon looked sympathetic, seemingly uncaring that he was standing in the place of his death. Tyraxes had been bound to him once, as she had been to the previous two Aegons. Now, all three of them were ash and only Rhaegar remained.

“I want no part of this.”

His father smiled, showing his teeth and his bird-like hands extended in invitation. It would have been a warm gesture if it weren’t for his monstrously long nails and the glint in his dark eyes.

“You already took your part. You already took my life. Is death not what you wished upon your blood?”

His words were a hammer, knocking the air out of his lungs. His fingers twitched at his sides.

“No,” he breathed, “I didn’t kill you.”

The words felt hollow to his own ears but he clung to them with all his might. 

“You doomed me all the same.” Father’s voice was gleeful and raspy, as if it delighted him to watch his son crumble.

 _It was you who killed those young Lords, not me_ , he wanted to tell him. _You brought this upon yourself._

“Who led them to treason? Who schemed and plotted and supplied the poison?”

“No!” He pleaded, as he had a hundred times before in order to ease Father’s ire, never quite learning the futility of it all “I was coming back to fight for you!” 

Father laughed, throwing his head back. His laughter was manic and unhinged and found Rhaegar paralysed with fear.

The land beneath them shook and cracked like an eggshell, scattering the bones that littered the Targaryen estate. In his dreams, the deep canyons always immediately filled with molten rock, glowing red and hot but this time, the gaping maw of underground was dark and empty and seemingly endless.

 _I shouldn’t be looking at this,_ he knew for certain. Every inch of him felt like it was cracking with lightning, every muscle screaming with an intense urge to get away.

_“Leave.” His mother told him, her pale hair swaying in the air. The base of her neck was littered with ugly purple bite marks she could never quite hide from his eyes the way she could from Viserys._

If the souls stranded amongst the Palace walls noticed the proceedings, they gave no indication. They lingered, burning with cold light.

“Look in.” Father urged, malice gone from his face for once. It made him uncannily blank. “See for yourself what you ran from.”

“No.” He told him. 

_Those are not my father’s eyes._

His father’s eyes were dark and scared, always full of terror, even when he was at the height of power. It didn’t matter how many times he proved to be the Lord of Rhaenyra’s tower, how many slaves he had whipped and how many he fed to his dragon. _The Mark of Fourteen Flames_ , the priests had told his mother. He had seen too much during the accident and the changes it had left in him would only continue to grow.

“Look.” The shade repeated, moving closer. Its movements were cutting and erratic, the limbs dragging like a puppet’s. Beneath its feet, bones cracked and groaned with the voices of Maegor’s sacrifices.

_Look, look, look._

The others agreed, drawing around him and blocking off all means of escape.

_Look._

“No.” Rhaegar tried again, desperately. This wasn’t how his dreams went. He should have awakened by now, shaking and drenched in sweat.

 _I am the blood of the dragon,_ he told himself. _Ghosts cannot hurt me._

The dead crawled closer, with their ruby red eyes burning with a hateful intensity. Their silver hair streamed behind them like a veil.

 _They cannot hurt me,_ he repeated but he could not make himself believe the statement.

Whether they would or would not hurt him was irrelevant compared to inherent horror he felt at the thought of facing what waited in the darkness. He had read a thousand books, read of monsters and terrors known to man but it was not the content of those books that scared him.

It was the blank lines, the answers even the mages and warlocks could not find.

The darkness was so deep a thousand glass candles could not light it.

_I am the blood of the dragon._

But they all had been. 

Aegon of the Red Wastes with his swinging braid and his dragon eyes. The shape of Lady Rhaenyra, dressed all in black with her burning eyes, recognisable only from her sculpture in Rhaenyra’s tower in Valyria. The flickering light of Visenya and Maegor, crimson like the blood they spilled to win their places in the world.

And more, nameless and faceless people he couldn’t recognise, ancestors who had lived and died in this cursed place. The blood of the dragon, all of them, and now all of them dead and gone.

_What does it all mean?_

The eyeless skull at his feet looked blankly, the black depths of his sockets mutely telling him of things only the dead could understand. Nearby, a raven landed on a piece of rubble, tilting its head.

_Coward._

Rhaegar felt his face glisten with sweat. His hands shivered almost as if from cold.

_I must be brave._

“What was I supposed to do?”

He had spent hours in the libraries across the Empire, had given a dragon egg, _his_ dragon egg to a merchant in Pentos in exchange for Daenys’ journal. He had tried speaking to warlocks and priests and High Lords but his attempts bore no fruit in the face of their nonchalance.

Rhaegar dreamt the same every night but by the end of it, even he began to doubt his sanity.

The thing that wore his father’s face stared at him solemnly.

“It was your duty. It was paid for in blood.”

He could almost hear it now, the same old prophecy that had forced his mother into a marriage that ruined her life. The very same one that led to the final gathering in Maegor’s Palace on the day of the accident.

The ruins spoke of the price it took.

Hundreds of slaves, to raise a castle in the most dangerous place in the world, in the same place Valyrians had found and tamed the source of their power according to the legend.

_You failed, you failed, you failed._

Dozens of his blood relatives, to attempt some forgotten ancient magic that not even the mages could decipher. 

_Leave, leave, leave._

The voices spoke over each other now, a chorus of accusations from the bloodline he had been born to serve. From Visenya to Aerys, they had all paid their dues in the name of the family.

Except for him.

_Coward._

He bit his lip and closed his eyes.

 _“Hold your tongue and don’t look away.”_ His mother had told him once when he had been a boy witnessing his first execution _, “He will know.”_

Rhaegar remembered the day clearly even now. The escapee had been young, barely older than himself and it had taken his father’s dragon exactly three bites to swallow the burned remains as the beast had learned its rider’s cruelty.

 _I’m sorry Mother,_ _I’m failing you again._

Whatever courage he had possessed had deserted him in the cloud of smoke. His eyes had been shut close from the irritation of the smoke and his lungs had been burning when he had turned Tyraxes around.

If there were gods that ruled the fates of men the way people believed in the West, they had clearly wanted him alive though because despite everything, it had taken a storm to bring her down.

Rhaegar shivered at the memory of crawling in the disorienting cold and wondered if death will feel just as dreadful and frightening. He didn’t dare open his eyes.

_If I look at them, I am dead._

“ _Don’t look away.”_ Mother whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

_I’m sorry._

Tyraxes screeched in the distance, a shrill piercing sound that carried over the howling of the spectres. Her presence suddenly felt like an anchor in his mind, a pull that guided him across the field of darkness. Blindly, he reached out, stumbling in her direction. 

_If I look at them, I am dead._

_Coward, leave, failed,_ the void around him assured him in an overwhelming chorus.

He ignored it, focusing on the instinct that called him.

_If I look at them, I am dead._

He nearly wept in relief when his extended hand touched warm scales, burning with familiar internal heat. He knew, without seeing that it was Tyraxes there, his companion on uncountable lonely nights. The dragon was many things, but most of all it meant safety.

The contact was feather-light but something lurched in his stomach and the world spun behind his closed eyelids. After what felt like forever, there was finally blissful silence.

The next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes, suddenly aware of many things at once, the first being the pounding in his head.

Smothering a groan, he tried to sit up only to immediately regret it as burning pain ripped through his left shoulder. Somewhat belatedly, he remembered the injury. The hours afterward were a blur but he could recall that the molten projectile with perfect clarity. Tyraxes had bore the brunt of the impact but neither of them left unscratched.

_A small punishment for cowardice._

The room he had found himself in was simple and smelt of straw. The walls were built from grey stone and the only pieces of furniture were his bed, a small night stand with a pitcher of water and an old wooden chair.

His vision blurred even as he tried to take in his surroundings, leaving him to blink owlishly. It took him a couple moments to realise he had locked gazes with a serving maid who was standing in the doorway with a pitcher of water.

The woman yelped and ran out, calling for someone.

The yelling made him wince and then regret it when his whole body protested the movement. Spots began to dance in and out his vision like black fireflies and his eyelids were heavy.

The last thing he remembered before he passed out again was a pair of grey eyes appearing through the door.

The next time he woke up, he felt less groggy. 

The light streaming from a small window made him squint but this time he was coherent enough to know he shouldn’t move. The second thing Rhaegar had quickly become aware of was that he was thirsty. His mouth felt like someone had filled it with sand and then scrubbed it raw.

He gave a longing glance to the pitcher of water.

The third thing he realised was that he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t have time to dwell on that though when someone pushed a glass into his face with enough force that for a moment he feared he was going to black out for a second time.

“Sorry, sorry.” The stranger spoke in broken Valyrian but he barely heard her as he drank greedily.

She moved the glass away from him way too soon for his liking.

“Not too much.” 

She was a pale, slim girl with brown hair and thick dark eyebrows and he was certain he had never seen her before in his life.

“Where-” he tried to ask but a coughing fit took over him before he could even finish the first word. His chest and throat ached from the smoke he had breathed in but he couldn’t afford to cough properly without irritating his burns.

Fortunately, she understood him well enough.

“Winterfell.” Realising something she quickly added, “Westeros.”

_Westeros. Of all the places in the world, it had to be Westeros._

Rhaegar had nothing against the land itself; he had heard it was beautiful, when it wasn’t being torn apart by wars between the Kingdoms. It was, however, undoubtedly the worst place for a Targaryen to end up at.

The nobles of Westeros had little love for Aegon’s bloodline and absolutely no desire to risk another conquest. They had shown that clearly during the Dance, the moment it appeared clear that the Westerosi Targaryens wouldn’t receive any support from the Valyrian Empire.

Just like he wouldn’t get any help from anyone now.

The grief was a fresh, festering wound and he shied away from that train of thought.

“If I leave will you pass out again?” The girl tilted her head with a frown, speaking each word slowly and with a learner’s uncertainty.

Rhaegar did not wish to see her go; he had many questions burning in the back of his mind and she must have read that from his face.

“My father has questions for you. About why you came to the North.” She paused, thinking of something. “He is the King here.”

She looked at him as if she expected him to say something to that but he could not for the life of him think of anything. His mind was spinning in circles and everything felt muted; the only thing that stood out was the distant feeling of grief.

He had little doubt what the questions were and he knew what his answers would be.

“I will try my best to answer them.” 

His words came out like a practiced line and it seemed to dissatisfy her even as she nodded and left. There were many things he wanted to ask and his thoughts were frazzled but voicing any of that felt dangerous. The least he said until he managed to compose himself, the better.

_Hold your tongue and don’t look away._

Thinking of his mother made him nauseous, the aftertaste of the fever dream still fresh on his mind. He wondered what she would have thought if she could see him now; he had lived while she had not, while Viserys had not.

_Was it worth it?_

He couldn’t tell. But the instinct pulling him towards clinging to life didn’t want to debate. Even now, he knew what he would need to do.

In a way, he was fortunate enough to have experience using aliases. Names had power and he had always found it to be more convenient to be able to shed the taint associated with his bloodline. In the West, Targaryens were despised as foreign invaders but they weren’t loved any better in the East. When Visenya Targaryen returned from Westeros after her family’s exile had been lifted, she had given up her crown but not her dreams. The other families did not appreciate her rise to power, especially since his ancestors had picked up a lot of unusual customs during their time in Westeros.

In a way, his family had always been trapped in an unenviable position, torn between the two continents but belonging to neither and each of them made their own decision on which side they would pick.

He supposed the gods had made that choice for him.

When the door next opened, it was to the sight of a small procession, the head of which was an old man in heavy robes with a chain around his neck.

 _A maester,_ he recognised belatedly, after letting himself think that this King did not look very kingly. 

The elder was followed by a broad-shouldered man dressed in expensive furs. There was no crown on his head in the comfort of his home but Rhaegar recognised to be the Lord of this keep anyway. There was an unyielding quality to him and his eyes were identical to the girl from earlier.

“You stand in the presence of Rickard Stark, the King in the North.”

The maester spoke fluent Valyrian but his voice was weak and echoed oddly, making Rhaegar strain to hear him even in a silent room.

He tried to sit up straighter in his bed but had to settle for simply nodding respectfully.

“I am thankful for your care, your majesty.”

King Rickard’s face gave nothing away as he listened to the maester translate. When he spoke, it was in Westerosi.

“His grace would like to know who he is speaking with and what is my Lord’s business in Westeros.”

Rhaegar had guessed they would have asked that from him. For a moment he imagined what would have happened if he answered the question honestly. How long would it take for the man to draw a dagger and end it?

His eyes caught the girl from earlier, standing in the doorway with a frowning young man who could only be her brother. Her lips were pressed in a thin line and she met his gaze with unflinching curiosity.

“My name is Rhaegar, son of Lord.” 

The maester’s mouth twitched slightly.

The people of Westeros had a strict view on illegitimate children. They would receive no last names of their own, bearing the name of their kingdom instead that would reveal their shame to the world.

Valyrians had been more forgiving, especially when it came to the children of the dragonlords for the laws of marriage had nothing to do with the blood running through their veins. The dragons didn’t care if their riders had been trueborn or not and it was the dragons that were the source of their power. 

Those without names of their own would usually mention being descended from one of the Great Houses when introducing themselves by calling themselves the children of Lords, something a maester would be aware of.

“I have intruded on your lands by accident.” He admitted quietly, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t risk another coughing fit. “My dragon had been injured and could not fly through the blizzard.”

The young man in the doorway muttered something to that, making the King give him a look.

“What injured it?”

Rhargar wondered how much the man suspected. What did a Westerosi King know of the circumstances of Valyria?

“A disaster had struck the Freehold.” the words sounded distant, as if it weren’t his own throat that they were coming from, “She got hit by a piece of molten stone.”

The man was not satisfied with that answer.

“What disaster?” The maester translated.

Rhaegar thought of the ash and the heat, thought of the images in his dreams and wondered how he could explain that, how anyone could possibly understand what happened and what led up to it.

Daenys the Dreamer had been the first to speak about the Doom of Valyria but her words had stuck around in the corners of society for centuries until every man, woman and child knew about the prophecy that never came to be.

He doubted that the people of Westeros knew about that though.

“The Fourteen Flames exploded all at once.” He knew for a fact that was how it had begun despite not having been there in person. “Valyria is…” _Gone,_ he wanted to say but his voice trailed off before he could even mouth the word.

In his mind, Valyria still stood, shining and golden, with its topless towers and dragon roads. It felt so real, so lifelike; it was impossible to accept that the city had been reduced to smoking ruins.

He remembered the streets, the buzzing of merchants on a summer night and the scent of spices. The children laughing and playing on the streets and the musicians on every corner. A thousand lives he knew nothing about unfolding in the embrace of every street.

How could it all just be gone from one day to the next?

_But it is. It’s gone, all gone._

His throat felt tight and he coughed in an effort to clear it but it wasn’t helping.

_Don’t think about it._

The foreign monarch was looking at him from the chair at the bank of his bed, face melancholy. He spoke something that the maester didn’t bother translating but even without understanding, he could read the tone.

 _What do you have to grieve about?_ He thought but there was no energy left in him for anger. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“What about your dragon, my Lord?” The maester asked eventually, unprompted. 

Rhaegar closed his eyes. For every day since he first claimed her, Tyraxes had been a steady presence in his mind but now even that felt distant and muted. She would have never left him if she could help it, he knew. They had gotten separated in the snowstorm but the fact they had apparently been unable to find her concerned him almost more than the alternative.

The injuries she had suffered had been heavy and the landing hadn’t been easy on her either. There was nobody who would treat her in Westeros, nobody to bring her food if she couldn’t hunt and at her size, she ate _a lot_.

“I don’t know.” He admitted. “Might be dead, might die soon.”

The dark-haired girl pursed her lips and spoke to the maester in a bossy tone. The old man shook his head and told her something back that made her frown and her brother put a hand on her shoulder, shaking his head.

It was a familiar exchange; so familiar, he had to look away. 

“Did anyone else survive?” 

“I don’t know.” Rhaegar repeated. “There was a - _conflict_ , most families were there because of it. I don’t see how anyone could have been there and survived.”

The maester gave him a surprised look. 

“You survived.” He pointed out.

“I was on the way when it happened.” _And then I turned around and ran away._

The old man relayed the information and then shuffled his sleeves curiously.

“It seems like the gods have spared you, my Lord.”

He gave no reply to that, looking to the window on the other side of the room. There was nothing to see outside; nothing but white skies.

Privately, he thought he might as well be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a challenge because the best thing about Targs is that they're mystical but in the sense that they also dk wtf they're doing bc of all that lost history and knowledge but that really isn't the case here and it's hard to balance it all out.  
> A note on Tyraxes, I know it belonged to Joffrey not Aegon III but I couldn't find a reason why Rhaenyra who married a Valyrian nobleman in this AU, would have named her son Joffrey and I wasn't about to rename him and then be stuck explaining who tf this rando is so I just erased him, I'm sorry.  
> Aegon III still had dragon trauma though so he never rode his dragon at all.  
> Also a note on Egg, he never met Dunk in this but he did tour the Dothraki sea and the Red Wastes and befriended a Dothraki rider. I like to think he eventually even married a Dothraki woman.  
> This concludes my lore session, thank you all for reading!


	4. Lyanna II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they were younger, he and Ned spent hours playing a game Brandon had called ‘Knights and Brigands’ while she and Benjen watched from the sidelines. Usually, poor Ned was stuck in the role of a brigand and the eldest Stark would chase him across the whole castle, swinging his wooden sword wildly. On one occasion, the two of them had even crashed into Old Nan, knocking her off her feet and earning themselves a lecture from their mother.
> 
> The memories were bittersweet now; first Brandon had been fostered and then Ned. Brandon had returned eventually, but he was different now, older and more serious and she had little doubt Ned had changed too.

Just as she had begun to get used to her new routine, Lyanna’s everyday changed once again as the weather improved. When before, she would spend her mornings sneaking around the godswood with Benjen, she was now forced to amuse herself as Brandon dragged him to the training yard as soon as the sun would rise.

It seemed to her like her oldest brother had found something to prove but whatever fuelled his new intensity was known only to him.

Lyanna had been resentful and jealous initially but those feelings soon turned into gleeful teasing because it had quickly become obvious Brandon was far from a merciful trainer. Once his lessons were over, Benjen would head straight to bed and would stay there until roused. 

She had mocked him for his stiff movements but the jokes got old very fast once she realised that just like it had happened with Brandon and Ned before, this was the start of her brother and her living two different lives.

It was a sobering thought but Lyanna had found herself adapting quickly; unlike Ned, she had never had the patience for sulking for a long time.

“Good morning!” She greeted maester Walys, bouncing through the door of his study so suddenly that the old man nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Princess Lyanna.” He nodded hastily once he regained his bearings. “I see you are up early.”

_ It’s not even that early,  _ she thought but she understood what the old man was getting at. Her father had recently arranged her lessons with the castle’s seamstress, decreeing it about time Lyanna had learned a thing or two about sewing.

Lessons that were _supposed_ to occur in early morning hours but that she found herself eager to skip.

“Days are short as it is,” she rationalised grinning remorselessly, “there is no sense in wasting daylight on sleep.”

Walys smiled at her defense, his thin lips quirking at the corners.

“Wise words, your grace. Would it be that your brothers agreed.”

The statement amused her. Both Benjen and Brandon were hard to rouse in the mornings but having been forced to wake up at sunrise lately, it was not uncommon for them to be sound asleep before the sun had set again.

“They have been working hard.” She defended them despite the grin stretching across her face.

“So they have.” The man agreed. “Prince Brandon’s tenacity is admirable. The master-at-arms says he will surpass him soon at this rate.”

It didn’t come as a surprise to Lyanna.

“Brandon has always loved swords.”  _ Of all kinds. _

When they were younger, he and Ned spent hours playing a game Brandon had called ‘Knights and Brigands’ while she and Benjen watched from the sidelines. Usually, poor Ned was stuck in the role of a brigand and the eldest Stark would chase him across the whole castle, swinging his wooden sword wildly. On one occasion, the two of them had even crashed into Old Nan, knocking her off her feet and earning themselves a lecture from their mother.

The memories were bittersweet now; first Brandon had been fostered and then Ned. Brandon had returned eventually, but he was different now, older and more serious and she had little doubt Ned had changed too.

“He brings your father a lot of pride.” The maester said, a touch of sadness in his tone. “But also a lot of worries.”

Lyanna shrugged. That was who Brandon was; amazing but concerning. The touch of unpredictability and danger to him added to his charisma and she couldn’t imagine him being any different.

“I’m sure Father has other things to worry about.”  _ Like the Ironborn,  _ she almost said but caught herself, her father's words from the last time they spoke about the issue still clear in her mind. She was certain that the master was aware of this issue but even so, she didn’t wish to push the issue.

Walys sighed, playing with one of his large sleeves absentmindedly. When he spoke it was with the tone of a man who knew more than he was letting on.

“Indeed he does. There are many things on the King’s mind these days.” He paused. “But enough about that. Let’s get you what you came here for.”

He crossed the room of his study to where the richly engraved wooden closet sat in the darkest corner. While his desk was usually a mess of papers, books and contraptions, he kept his collection of herbs and medicine perfectly organised. 

Before handing it to Lyanna, he inspected the small flask full of milky white liquid carefully.

“Here you go. Be careful with the dosage, you don’t want-”

“-to give too much, I know.” She finished impatiently, snatching the flask. “Will you not be joining us?”

Usually, Lyanna waited until the maester inspected and changed the Lord’s bandages before coming in with the books. It had been their routine for about a week now.

“I’m afraid your father has need of me this morning. I will be coming by later in the day.” The old man explained. “I would appreciate it if you convinced him to take the milk of poppy beforehand.”

“Of course.” She carefully laid the flask into the pouch hanging from the belt.

“I’ll just take the books then.”

“They’re on the table near the window.” Walys pointed to her. “I saw no reason to return them to the library. I would be surprised if anyone else was reading them.”

Lyanna had to agree with his assessment. She didn’t imagine anyone would willingly spend their time reading about the history of Great Houses of Westeros and the Common Tongue. Highborn children were usually already taught these things by their maesters and she couldn’t see why someone would want to revisit those lessons in adulthood. 

“I certainly wouldn’t be.” In the past moon, she had spent plenty of time in the library, driven by her curiosity. Unfortunately, Lyanna was not a patient person and the only major lesson she had learned was how to spot if a book was going to be boring at a glance alone. 

They were heavy, yellowed pages bound in thick leather and mostly undecorated besides the illustrations in the heraldry section. And even those were nothing compared to rich drawings of war machines and mythical creatures she had spotted in some other books.

“It is very kind of you to devote your time to this.” Maester Walys smiled gently. “I’m sure Lord Rhaegar appreciates your effort.”

Lyanna wasn’t so sure about that. She couldn’t get a good enough read on the dragonlord to guess whether or not her company bothered him. He was a pretty sad and not very reactive conversational partner. Still, she guessed he must be bored to death, doing nothing but staying in his bed all the time. He didn’t speak the Common Tongue and only a select few in Winterfell spoke Valyrian. Out of those, the maester was the only one to visit him and even then he didn’t linger long.

Initially, Lyanna had meant to simply bring him some books but she had realised in time that he had no way of reading them since most of them weren’t written in Valyrian. So instead, she devised a new solution.

“It wouldn’t do him any good to just sit alone with his thoughts all the time.” 

When she was younger, Lyanna had used to do the same for her mother. After giving birth to Benjen, Mother’s health had worsened, often leaving her confined to her bed even before the shivering fever that had taken her life. Queen Lyarra had been an energetic woman and being stuck on bedrest had made her sad and frustrated but whenever her children visited her, she would always wear the biggest smile. 

_ “It’s boring here. Nobody likes to be alone.”  _ Mother had told her once, cupping her cheek. Lyanna could almost feel the phantom touch and her heart ached.

“Do you think Father will dine with us tonight?” She asked suddenly.

Maester Walys hummed thoughtfully.

“I do not know. The King has many concerns these days that keep him busy. Do not doubt that that he wishes to take his meals with you and the Princes.”

Lyanna had no doubts about that to begin with. Father had always made time for his family so if he said he didn’t have time, he most likely truly had no time. She was concerned for him, always holed up in his study, worrying about the matters of the Kingdom.

“What if I brought him dinner to his room?” 

The old man sighed. “Princess-”

“-I won’t disturb him, I swear. I just don’t want him to be alone.”

_ And I don’t want to be alone either _ , she thought to herself. Her brothers tended to take their dinners early these days or have them brought to their chambers. The dining hall was never empty of course, and Lyanna was close enough with the servants to be able to strike conversations with them but despite this, she was beginning to feel left out.

The maester looked at her thoughtfully, seemingly seeing right through her. His small, dark eyes glittered like twin beetles with some unseen revelation. 

“I shall ask him.” He relented. He smiled at her but it was a withdrawn smile, as if something was on his mind. 

“Thank you.” Lyanna adjusted the books in her arms, their weight dragging her down. “I’m grateful that he at least has you to rely on. Your counsel has helped our family on many occasions.”

Despite trying to remain humble as his status demanded, it was clear he swelled with pride at her words.

“I am just doing what is expected of me.”

After that, they parted ways, him heading to the King’s study with a bunch of scrolls and her dragging the heavy towards where the guest chambers were located, a pep in her step.

It was no secret that Brandon disliked the old maester but Lyanna found him to be amusing. If he meddled too much, like her brother believed he did, it was for the good of the North. After all, the maesters of the Citadel were tied to the castles they served; it was in his own best interests to want to see them thrive.

_ Besides, Father is smart enough to only follow his counsel if it makes sense. _

She found Rhaegar already awake and sitting up in his bed. One of the maids must have been there not too long ago because he was still occupied with his breakfast. 

Lyanna belatedly knocked on the doorframe, grinning brightly.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” He replied in awkward Common Tongue.

Lyanna laid the books down gently on the table next to the bed and shook her arms to bring some life into them again.

“Heavy.” She complained, then she switched to Valyrian, speaking while she extracted the flask from her pouch. “The maester will come by later today. He says you have to take the milk of poppy beforehand.”

His face didn’t change much but the tension of his shoulders gave away the displeasure even so. 

“Why do you dislike it so much?” She asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. 

Maester Walys had told her some patients did not indulge in pain relief because they preferred to keep their minds clear to focus on the task at hand. Yet Rhaegar had nothing he needed to be awake and alert for and his burns were obviously causing him a great deal of pain.

He hesitated, face guarded and she bit back disappointment. It was not as if she expected a straight answer out of him.

“If Princess wishes for me to-”

“-Just call me Lyanna.” She pursed her lips. “Fine then, if you don’t wish to take it I won’t force you.”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. In a way, he reminded Lyanna of a marble statue, with his fine, elegant features and distant demeanour. 

She couldn’t find it in herself to hold that against him though. All her feelings regarding him boiled down to empathy. Father had told them about what the men sent by Lord Manderly reported, the tales of blackened skies, ruined buildings and crimson horizons sounding like something from Old Nan’s stories. They said it had rained dragonglass on the first day and that the peninsula had shattered, leaving the smoking ruins of Valyria an island. 

Unlike Old Nan’s stories though, there was no hero and no way to reverse the damage. All men who sailed to the Freehold vanished, never to return because the horror that had swallowed the Valyrian Freehold still awaited there, preying on new victims.

Lyanna wondered what she would be like if the North was destroyed in such a horrible way and found out she didn’t wish to imagine it. There was only so much loss a human heart could handle and still find reason to go on for another day.

“I brought the books.” She went on, undeterred by the lack of response. “I was thinking we could work on your vocabulary today. Maester Walys gave me some pointers on what to focus on.”

Grief hung in the spaces of his silences like a dark cloud.

“That would be fine.” He finally said, prodding at a piece of bacon on his plate with a fork.

Taking that as permission she went on: “About that, I think you should try replying to me in Common Tongue only, at least during the lessons.”

He frowned at her, visibly confused.

“But I don’t speak-”

“-You’ll learn faster that way.” She cut down the complaint before he had the chance to speak it.

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, then his eyes dulled again and he set his plate aside. He didn’t look at her, facing the window on the other side of the room instead.

“If the Princess commands it.”

Lyanna huffed in frustration. 

“I’m not commanding you. It’s your choice.” 

She let him think about it for a bit, watching him keenly. There was a vivid disinterest in how he approached the world around him; his eyes glanced off objects and people alike as if they weren’t worth a second thought. 

_ It’s a shame _ , she thought.

He had unusual eyes, a deep indigo colour not found in Westeros but Lyanna found them sad rather than striking. Valyrians were said to be beautiful but it seemed like a burden rather than a blessing, to carry the look of a culture now wiped off the face of Planetos.

“Yes.” He said finally, in Common Tongue, sounding very unenthusiastic about it. 

Lyanna smiled.

“Great. Don’t worry about getting something wrong, I’ll just correct you.”  _ Gods know I make enough mistakes every time I speak Valyrian. _

She picked up the heavier of the books, the one that talked about the history of Westeros and thumbed through it until she found the page she was looking for.

“Here,” she pushed the book towards him, letting him see the crests, “we talked about these yesterday. Do you remember the Houses they belong to?”

It was an easy task, by all accounts. The crests belonged to the seven ruling families of Westeros and were decorated with their words. She didn’t actually think he needed help remembering them; it was just an excuse to have him speak.

“Baratheon.” Rhaegar pointed to the stag with his good hand almost dismissively. “Tyrell, Martell, Lannister, Greyjoy, Arryn, you.”

“Very funny.” She leaned backwards in her chair. “And what are my words?”

He shrugged and went back to looking through the window. Lyanna sighed softly.

“Valyrian Houses don’t have sigils or words, do they?” 

That was what the books in the library had said. She found the idea strange; she couldn’t imagine a noble family without a sigil to represent them.

He shook his head, his silver hair swaying with the motion. In the past moon, it had grown to the point where it was now getting into his eyes.

_ I should probably offer to cut it, _ she thought off-handedly then discarded the idea. He could do it himself once he was well enough for it.

“One.” He told her in a melancholy tone.

It took her a moment to realise what he was trying to say.

“Oh, right. Targaryens picked that up in Westeros.” She remembered seeing the three-headed dragon somewhere on the pages.

“Well, the only place where you’d see that one these days is King’s Landing. They say the city is cursed so nobody goes there anymore.” Taking back the book, Lyanna browsed through the yellowed parchment until she found the page with the map.

“Here,” she pushed it back into his lap, leaning over to point at the place with a finger, “this is King’s Landing. And we are over here in Winterfell. My brother Ned is being fostered right here in Eyrie right now, but I’m hoping he comes back soon.”

_ Do you have any siblings,  _ she almost asked before she realised what she was about to say and bit her tongue, scolding herself.  _ Silly girl. _

“I want to travel to King’s Landing one day. I don’t believe it can be cursed just because it was burned. Harrenhall was destroyed by Balerion the Black Dread and people are still living in it to this day.”

To her surprise, the map seemed to win his attention. He was looking for something and frowned when he couldn’t.

“Dragonstone?” He asked her.

_ Of course he’d know about Dragonstone,  _ she kicked herself for not thinking of it sooner. Though it was part of Westeros, the island belonged to the Valyrian Empire even years after the last dragonlords left the continent. 

“It’s here, in the Stormlands. I wonder what’s going to happen to it now.” She mused. The news of what happened to Valyria would spread and a castle of that size would not be just left to rot without an owner. Even Harrenhal, infamous for the fact every House that held it ended up dying out, still found an owner.

Likely, Steffon Baratheon would lay a claim to it, officially making it a part of his kingdom. Or it would be claimed indirectly through young Lord Monford Velaryon as the upkeep has been entrusted to his family.

Either way, it was none of Lyanna’s business.

Rhaegar wore a conflicted expression, staring into the map as if he was trying to carve into his memory or set it on fire, she couldn’t decide. Whatever the case, she found it preferable over his withdrawn lack of interest.

“Do you want to go to Dragonstone once you’re better?” She asked him.

He traced the map with one shaking finger, almost brushing past her own hand before she quickly snatched it back. When he reached Dragonstone he lingered for a moment, thinking. Then, he drew his hand back and let it drop limply on the bed.

Just as quickly as it had come, his interest had already faded.

“What would be the point?” His voice was so soft she almost missed it. It was spoken in Valyrian so she assumed it was not meant for her ears.

She frowned, bothered by this.

“You don’t want to see it?” 

_ You should probably leave it alone,  _ a voice that sounded like Brandon told her. She ignored it. 

“No.” He told her, in Common Tongue this time.

Lyanna supposed she could understand it. It could be painful, looking at something that was almost home but not quite. 

Despite this, she was irked by defeat in his tone.

“I think you should.” She said brazenly and he looked at her with a frown. “Eventually, maybe. You are intending to stay in Westeros, right? It’s not safe in the East right now. My father says that the former territories of the Empire are preparing for a revolt.”

His attention was fully on her now, painfully sharp in its intensity.

_ Do you care?  _ His face seemed to ask, his strange eyes filled with sadness.

Lyanna got flustered, looking away. “I mean, I don’t want to see you die, you know? We went through all this trouble to keep you alive, so…”

_ “You got attached.” _ Brandon had told her a week ago, once he learned of her new activities. She had scoffed but there was some truth to his words. After all the time she had spent helping the maester care for the man when he was unconscious, she was somewhat invested in his wellbeing.

_ Nobody likes to be alone. _

She believed her mother’s words wholeheartedly. 

“Stay.” 

Rhaegar’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts, quiet and melancholy but nevertheless final. 

“You will stay in Westeros?”

He nodded shortly, gaze once again falling on the map. 

She smiled. “You’ll have to go see the Wall then. And Oldtown. There’s a lot of places to see in Westeros.” A sense of longing etched in her chest. “One day, I’m going to see them all too. Even places like King’s Landing or Harrenhal.”

It was a promise she made to herself once she had accepted the reality of her life.

_ I will be wed one day, but I will do all these things anyway.  _

Even if she couldn’t fight or rule or build, there were a few freedoms Lyanna would still have, by the proxy of being a King’s daughter. If she decided she wanted to travel, her husband wouldn’t be able to simply lock her in the castle.

“I hope your dragon survives.” She told him, earning herself a confused look. “I want to see a dragon one day.”

She eyed the window and the open skies on the other side of the wall. In her mind’s eye, she could almost see a sketch from one of the books coming to life, soaring on wings large enough to block out the sun. 

_ Is that why you keep looking there?  _ She wondered and found the idea rather sad. She made a mental note to ask one of the men to move Rhaegar’s bed closer to the window.

At least that way, he would have an easier time waiting for something that might never happen.

“I keep getting off track.” She groaned at herself. “I said I was going to teach you.”

All of the sudden, she had a lot more respect for the maester. She imagined what teaching Brandon would have been like and shuddered. 

The next couple hours were spent quietly enough, with her making Rhaegar repeat various words that caught her eye while skimming through the book. He was a quick learner at least though she supposed there was nothing to distract him.

He was still injured though and he tired easily. He didn’t say anything but she could see exhaustion creep onto his face and his reaction time slow. Taking mercy on him, she was about to wrap things up when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” She called, closing the book with a snap.

Maester Walys entered slowly and with a hunched walk of an old man.

“Princess Lyanna.” He nodded. “My Lord. I see you’ve been working hard too.”

“We were just about to finish.” She stood up and went to pick up the book that laid forgotten on the small table. “I will give you privacy.”

“Actually,” Walys stopped her gently, “your father asked to see you. He sent me to fetch you.”

A wave of concern crept into her mind at the same time as elation over seeing Father did, leaving her with a confusing mix of emotions.

“What does he wish to talk to me about?”

The old man smiled reassuringly.

“Nothing bad, I promise you.” He shuffled with his sleeves. “If I may ruin the surprise - Domeric Bolton is stopping at Winterfell on his way around the North. He is being hosted by Lord Cerwyn right now and should be arriving tomorrow.”

_ Domeric Bolton,  _ Lyanna thought to herself with some trepidation. She was unsure of how she felt about it.  _ That’s bound to be interesting at least. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't all that eventful but I struggled deciding what I wanted to include in it for the sake of not dragging it out too long. I settled on some form of a conclusion to the setup of previous three chapters plus an introduction of future developments. Rhaegar is straight up not having a good time here but luckily, Lyanna is stubborn. She's all over the place here.
> 
> Another thing I realised is that since Dunk and Egg never met here, I have no idea who killed Baelor Breakspear. It has been on my mind a lot since then. Maybe Aerion's dragon accidentally sits on him idk :// Just imagine it to be very tragic still.


	5. Brandon II

The first impression Brandon got from Domeric Bolton was that he was quiet. It hadn’t been a surprise, all things considered; he had met Roose Bolton when he was younger and the Lord’s soft, quiet voice had stuck in his memory since, alongside a certain learned wariness associated with the Lord of Dreadfort.

But there was serenity to the son that the father lacked. Though he was younger than Brandon, Lyanna’s age and barely more than a boy, Domeric carried himself with dignity that left the Stark heir with little to dislike him over, besides his unwanted intrusion into their pack.

The King had been impressed by it, Brandon knew with a bitter certainty. His father’s face had been set into his usual stony expression but there was a pointed tone to his voice when he had seated him next to the young Lordling at the feast.

But Rickard had no way of knowing that Domeric had his aunt’s eye shape and her full pink lips or that Brandon had made use of those lips before, in ways that would make a Septa blush. Seeing them on another’s face was making him think of Barbrey, a mix of complicated feelings shaped vaguely like a person.

_ At least she didn’t insist on coming with. _

He thought he might have just as well have rolled over and died with Barbrey and his father in the same building. Afterall, Winterfell had no secrets.

“Yuck.” Next to Lyanna, Benjen spat into his cup. 

Brandon raised an eyebrow judgmentally.

“Is the ale not to your taste, brother?” 

_ Behave in front of the guest,  _ his tone said.

The tips of Benjen’s ears turned red with shame as he averted his gaze.

“I expected it to taste better.” He muttered somewhat defiantly.

Brandon couldn’t fault his brother. Usually, what they would be given at feasts was wine but in his opinion, one could barely call this affair a dinner let alone a feast. In respect to the shortages happening all over the North and perhaps partly as a test for their young visitor, Father had insisted on it being a humble business.

To his petty annoyance, Domeric had yet to express any dissatisfaction regarding this decision. The boy was calmly sitting in his spot between Brandon and Lyanna, busying himself with roasted potatoes. He had barely touched his cup.

His calmness was infuriating. 

His _ lack of offensiveness _ was infuriating. Like a pebble, smoothed over by the river, there were no cracks on the surface of his demeanour Brandon could focus on.

It was like dealing with an eel, slippery and unpredictable.

“How about you, my Lord? Is the ale to your liking?”

Domeric’s pale eyes flickered over when he was addressed but he did not rise to the provocation.

“I am grateful for his majesty’s generosity.”

_ Is he reminding me of the king’s presence? The brat-  _

Brandon’s temper flared; he could not help himself.

“So, it is not to your liking then.”

In response, the young Lord took a sip from his cup, appearing unruffled but when he spoke his words were careful.

“I’m afraid I’d be lying if I claimed either way as I don’t partake in drinks often and don’t have the experience to base it on. I am certain that anything served at Winterfell is high quality though.”

To that, there wasn’t much he could say.

“How come you don’t drink?” Lyanna’s curiosity was forced, anyone could tell that but at least she was trying. When Father had first told her about the possibility of striking betrothal, Brandon had feared she would be stubborn on the matter but it seemed she realised it was better to wed a husband she at least somewhat knew.

It hadn’t, however, stopped her from sitting stiffly in her chair and pointedly ignoring both Father and Brandon, a display of childishness she had yet to shake. 

_ At least she has the choice to reject him if she doesn’t like him,  _ he thought to himself, unable to understand his sister’s reservations. He knew with utmost certainty that when the time came for his own match, it would be entirely out of his hands..

“I prefer to keep my head clear.” Domeric didn’t seem to mind her coldness. “I’ve heard of men falling off their horses and dying because they’ve looked too deeply into their cups. I don’t wish to share that fate.”

“You could just not go riding after drinking.” Brandon rolled his eyes. “Though, a good enough rider will be fine in any case. Only an oaf will forget how to ride a horse just from some drink.”

When he was fostered at Barrowton, he had rode to a tavern on the outskirts of the nearby village more times than he could count and had managed to mount his horse and return safely every time. 

People were saying that the Bolton heir was a talented rider but Brandon found that hard to believe without some proof.

_ I bet Lyanna could outride him. _

“Maybe so,” The Lord admitted in his soft tone, “but I see no reason to tempt fate anyhow. Riding, like most things, is a lot more enjoyable when one is sober.”

Bradon could list a lot of things that were more enjoyable when one was  _ not _ sober, starting with Barbrey Ryswell’s mouth and ending a lot more scandalously. 

“Do you enjoy riding, my Lord?” Benjen jumped in quickly, grey eyes jumping between him and Lyanna. 

_ He’s trying to smooth things over _ , Brandon realised with momentary irritation. He couldn’t stay mad at Benjen; he knew his brother only had Lyanna’s best interests at heart.

Still, he was standing in between Brandon and wiping that serenity off Domeric Bolton’s face.

“It is one of my hobbies. I’ve been riding practically since the day I could walk, my mother was sick with worry.” A small laugh line appeared in his cheeks, still round with boyish fat. “I outrode my father’s stablehand by my 9th nameday.”

“Just like Lya!” Benjen laughed merrily, shooting a glance at his sister. “I can never catch up with her or Brandon.”

For the first time, something like honest interest appeared in the grey depths of Lyanna’s eyes, shyly peeking through her guarded expression. 

“I’d be surprised if you could catch up with a pony.” She quirked her mouth and bit her lip, gazing defiantly at the young Bolton. “If my Lord is interested, I would love to put our skills to test.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Brandon took a sip of his ale, frowning deeply at the sour taste. No matter how he looked, he could see no trace of insincerity behind Domeric’s words. It unsettled him, his father’s warnings about Roose Bolton’s intentions ringing sharp in his ears.

Nor did the boy’s composure crack at any point during the feast. He chatted with Benjen about Dreadfort and answered Lyanna’s questions about the places he had visited, talking at length about every little detail that interested her.

Brandon stayed quiet for the most part, toying with his food more than listening. Out of all the houses in the North, the Boltons were the last to bend the knee and that was something the maester had made sure he understood the implications of.

There was no reason to suspect disloyalty from Lord Roose yet, but it was undeniable that the man had seen cracks in the current Stark rule and made an effort to inspect them up close, like the fool that he was.

_ As if Father would be outsmarted by a roach like Roose. _

Laugher brought him back to reality and he turned his head sharply. Domeric Bolton had thrown his head back, chest shaking with mirth.

“-And then we spent the rest of the day looking for that damned horse.” Lyanna finished with a sharp grin of her own and Brandon realised exactly which story she had been recounting. 

For her 10th nameday, Father had gifted her a horse, a spirited, half-wild foal that he had bought from Lord Karstark. Upon arriving, the little beast had immediately started getting agitated. It was kicking around so wildly it had shaken off both Brandon and Father and fled into the godswood, before Lyanna even got the chance to see her gift. Instead, she had arrived to find her brother climbing out of a pile of manure, with her father informing her that there is a horse running buckwild somewhere around Winterfell that belongs to her now.

Both Father and Lyanna had found a lot of amusement in the situation; Brandon not so much. Even now, he didn’t appreciate being made the fool of in front of their guest, his wounded pride turning into irritation.

“I see you’re having fun, sister.” He huffed haughtily. “Mind if I recount the time you threw a tantrum because you weren’t allowed out in the rain and ended up falling from your horse?”

Lyanna blushed to the tip of her ears, sinking back into her chair with an angry look on her face. As always, he knew how to find her sore spots. Proud of her skilly, his sister didn’t like being reminded of the times she had failed.

“I was young then.” She defended, arms crossed, not facing Domeric. “I know better now and I haven’t fallen once since.”

The young Lord smiled gently, undeterred by Brandon’s harsh looks.

“My Lady Mother used to say there is no shame in mistakes, as long as we learn from them.” He appeared almost wistful. “I must admit that I am quite envious of you, Princess. You have many entertaining stories.”

His sister was taken aback, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“That’s horseshit.” She told him brashly. “You’ve been to so many places - I’ve never been away from Winterfell for more than a day. If anyone has stories to tell, it’s you.”

Brandon understood his sister well enough to know she didn’t appreciate false sentiments; he was curious to see how Domeric would find his way out of this one.

“Aye, I’ve travelled more than most people my age,” he agreed easily, “and I know that is something I should be grateful for. But travelling is seldomly fun the way your stories are. I have no siblings and Dreadfort is very lonely. I find a single day of laughter to be worth a thousand trips.”

There was a sad look to his pale eyes, not fitting in with his youthful face. For a moment, Brandon almost felt bad for him.

For Lyanna, there was no almost to it. Her eyebrows went up in an expression of empathy.

_ “She has a gentle heart.”,  _ their Father had said that day in his study and Brandon knew it to be true. If Lyanna had her way, nobody would ever be lonely.

By the time the feast was over, he knew she had grown fond of Domeric Bolton, arranging to go riding with him at sunrise. Brandon had been invited along somewhat reluctantly but his sister knew he would have joined regardless. 

He accompanied her and Benjen to their rooms and then headed towards Father’s study where the man was already waiting on him. 

Warm as always, the room glowed golden, illuminated by the fire in the hearth. The soft light cast dancing shadows that settled in every corner and deepened the lines on the King’s face.

Rickard Stark sat sternly in his chair, just as he had the last time and Brandon felt the same sense of inadequacy that haunted him every moment spent in his father’s company. 

“Lya and Benjen have gone to bed.” He reported quietly, not quite daring to disturb the man.

“And our guest?” 

Brandon licked his lips, pulling at the dry skin with his teeth.

“He had excused himself earlier, not long after you left. He said he was tired from the journey.”

Father stroked his beard slowly, twisting the ends around his fingers. 

“He  _ did _ have a rather long day.” His voice was a low rumble that filled the room. “What do you think of young Bolton, Brandon?”

_ Too many things,  _ he wanted to say.  _ A thousand thoughts and more and I’m certain about none of them. _

“He doesn’t seem insincere.” Was what came out of his mouth instead.

Father sighed.

“Yes, that’s the trouble, isn’t it?” He reached for the cup of wine waiting for him on his desk and took a sip. “I’m fairly certain Roose sent him travelling to report on the state of things. He probably wants to fish out what my plan of action is, the sly rat.”

Brandon crossed his arms, digging his fingers into the rough brown fabric of his tunic.

“But you still agreed to consider the betrothal between Domeric and Lyanna. You told her she had a choice and to get to know him beforehand; that it was a stroke of pure luck she can get to know him before the promise of a wedding. You knew that by giving her a choice, she would have none at all.”

He knew his father. He knew him as the kind man who seated his children at his feet and told him stories and he knew him as the merciless King, expecting a lot and demanding more. It felt like a knife sometimes; the exact moment he would go from beloved child to a subject to be molded.

It was the King’s eyes that stared into the flames now, burning with cold light.

“Yes. I’ve heard good things about Domeric - under the right set of conditions, it seemed highly likely she would find his company enjoyable. You have to understand, Brandon, that we all have our duties to fulfill. By sending his son around the North in this time of need, when the Starks are doing nothing, Roose is hoping to gain support from the Lords. Or rather, he is relying on Domeric gaining it.”

Brandon’s thoughts frazzled, struggling to fit this with his view of Domeric Bolton.

“I have no justification to stop him for he is breaking no laws.” Rickard continued. “However, he won’t refuse the betrothal to the Princess when I offer it and that way, all of his efforts and all of Domeric’s good graces will be tied to the Starks.”

Silence stretched between them, long and heavy. Suddenly, the heat seemed intolerable and alien, seeping into his skin and running through his blood. Brandon flickered the hair from his face.

He desperately wanted out.

“Do you really need my opinion on Domeric then?” He asked, voice more clipped than he intended.

Father looked tired.

“I respect your opinion.” He said quietly. “I know you disapprove of these games; it’s not in your nature to toy around. But you have to understand, as a King and the head of the family, you have to choose the lesser of evils. In this case, ensuring all prospective rivals stay under our control through my daughter’s hand.”

_ And what about me,  _ Brandon wondered rather selfishly.  _ What have you planned for me, Father? _

“I would never wed Lyanna to anyone who would be unworthy of her, so this is why I’m asking you - what do you think about Domeric Bolton?”

_ He has Barbrey’s lips, Gods help me,  _ he thought but he couldn’t say that.

_ He seems lonely and pleasant and well-intentioned and it’s making everything complicated. _

“One evening is too early to say.” Was what came out of his mouth instead. “Men seldom wear their faults on their sleeves as readily as they will flaunt their virtues.”

Father took another sip of his wine.

“That much is true,” he agreed, “but I believe you already have an impression. You just don’t know how to make sense of it.”

Brandon tensed, feeling see-through like glass under those piercing grey eyes.

“I don’t understand it.” The admission tore up his throat as if he had swallowed a fistfull of rocks. “He has every reason to play at being charismatic and likable but he doesn’t seem false. But he can’t be anything other than false, knowing the purpose of his trip and still acting like a loyal subject.”

It made him mad; he kept waiting for the boy to slip up, for that infuriating calmness to slip away and reveal his true nature, but the moment never came, no matter how he provoked. 

Brandon didn’t appreciate liars and by his understanding, Domeric Bolton couldn’t be anything but a snake. 

- _ but still _ , somewhat like a thorn, doubt had formed in his mind, taking the wind from his sails.

“I shared your concerns, initially.” Father spoke quietly, but there was no mistaking the iron tones of his voice. “However, I watched him with Benjen and Lyanna during the dinner, while you were sulking. I believe it to be likely he is being genuine. He might not even know about his father’s intentions; from his perspective, he has no reason to suspect anything.”

Brandon snorted, running one hand through his hair in wordless frustration. 

_ Why is it so hot in here? _

“If he doesn’t know what his own Lord Father is up to, he must be an idiot.” 

The King raised a dark eyebrow, amusement twisting in the corner of his mouth.

“Do you know everything I’m up to?”

_ If you told me- _

-he stopped that train of thought angrily.

“If it were important, you’d certainly tell me.” He snapped.

Father leaned back in his chair, still smiling oddly.

“I would, yes, but Roose Bolton might not do the same. But let’s move on, there is actually another reason why I summoned you here today, one that you might find more pleasant than the topic of the Boltons. Sit down.”

Obediently, Brandon sat down on the chair next to the door, facing the other man directly.

“Is this about the Ironborn?” He asked, a touch of excitement welling in his chest.  _ Finally,  _ he thought.

“Partially. I’ve come into contact with Lord Hoster Tully from the Riverlands. By his account, the Riverlords are tired of being ruled by the Ironborn. King Balon taxes them heavily and their people are suffering constant raids.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time the Riverlords rebelled against their rulers; the charred ruins of Harrenhal were a permanent reminder that House Tully had sided with Aegon Targaryen over Harren the Black. Their reasoning back then had been the mistreatment from the side of the Ironborn King towards the people of the Riverlands as well, mirroring the position they were in now.

_ It was a shame _ , Brandon thought,  _ that they couldn’t manage to keep the titles the Dragon King had given them.  _

He was willing to bet Greyjoys would be less of a pest if they were contained to the Iron Islands.

“So we can count on them to help us.” Brandon concluded, gleefully.

Father gave him a look.

“I have no intention to go to war with Greyjoys. House Stark has nothing to gain from it and I won’t sacrifice Northern lives for someone else’s rebellion. I told Lord Hoster as much.”

His words made no sense.

“But-”

“-I intend to call for banners soon.” The older man paid no mind to him. “We will defend our shores and our people. But Brandon, there is a difference between defending and going to war.”

He turned his face to the flames, eyes staring unblinkingly into the smoldering logs as if clouded by memory. 

“I’ve fought a war before; a senseless one. There are moments of glory, aye, but then morning light comes and you are watching the crows feast across the battlefield, if you are lucky enough to see the next day at all.”

Brandon understood that much; his father had been vocal about his experiences throughout his childhood. From the bottom of his heart, he respected the man’s judgement more than anything else in the world - but still…

“You are making a mistake.” The Gods had given him the bravery to utter those words. Father looked at him sharply, face unreadable and Brandon swallowed. His heart was beating so loudly, it seemed to fill the entire room.

_ This is the best chance we could have been given. We mustn’t waste it. _

“If the Riverlands gained independence, they would have an important position in the heart of the continent. The North could use an ally like that.”

Father seemed unimpressed.

“We have allies. The Arryns and the Baratheons are both in friendly relations with us. The Riverlands have no natural borders - they could gain independence with our help, aye, but how long could they keep it for? I am certain the Lion King would love to claim a slice of that pie. What use is there in an ally who would be reliant on our support?” He sighed, lips thin with irritation.

“This is your flaw. You are still young - you want to act before you think.”

_ And you never act,  _ Brandon mused, a thought so treasonous, it would never slip past his lips.

“But,” Father continued, voice softening, “I see some soundness in your strategy. I agree that there is potential in the Riverlands - it’s buried deep but it’s there. Maester Walys offered similar advice, though with far more caution. He also warned me not to judge this offer based on what can be exchanged in secrecy over letters alone. I have come to an arrangement with Lord Hoster; come spring, Lord Whent will hold a Spring Tourney at Harrenhal and he will invite the entire realm. When that time comes, I will speak with Lord Tully personally.”

For the second time that day, Brandon found himself taken aback. Leaning forwards in his chair, he rested his head in his hands.

“So the offer is not completely off the table yet.” He summarised.

Father looked remorseful.

“I mean it when I say I have no intention of bringing war to House Greyjoy.” He warned. “But I believe there is no harm in debating the matter further.”

His cautionary statement didn’t matter much; Brandon was already celebrating the small victory.

“When shall you call the banners to deal with the raiders then?” 

_ Gods _ , it felt like it had been ages since anything had happened in regards to that. A cross between excitement and dread filled them, making him tap his fingers along his elbow impatiently.

Finishing his wine with a loud exhale, Father leaned back in his chair.

“Once Domeric finishes his travels. He is intent on going to see his aunt at Barrowton but I will request he extend his journeys a bit to visit the Flints with his entourage and see the state of Cape Kraken. Having another Lord’s testimony to Lord Flint’s claims would assist us in justifying calling the banners amidst a winter as hard as this one.”

The mention of Domeric Bolton soured his mood a little.

“The journey could take over a moon.” Brandon protested.

“We shouldn’t rush too much. Right now, I am rather preoccupied dealing with the food shortages. Between the two, that’s the more pressing issue.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Brandon agreed with that assessment. Being the Prince of Winterfell, he hadn’t experienced much of a shortage himself but he was not blind nor deaf to the concern of Winterfell’s population. Nor did notice that even his own meals had become simpler once the King ordered rationing.

He could survive on porridges and stews, he knew, and unlike Benjen he didn’t complain about it once. Still - it had boosted his desire to solve the crisis pestering them.

Fortunately, they were on their way to bringing a close to the whole thing. The King had opened his own treasury to import supplies to be redistributed through the whole kingdom. The first shipments were already on their way to White Harbour, bringing an end to the hunger that had been brought upon by the unnatural winter. 

“You should go to bed.” Father urged him gently, the softness of his tone almost masking the order that laid beneath. Brandon knew it meant he was done debating things with him. “From what I’ve heard, you have a horseriding match scheduled at dawn.”

Stifling a groad, Brandon threw his head back in defeat.

“I had forgotten about that.”

Shadowing Lyanna as she spun around the young Bolton like a cat stalking towards a henhouse sounded anything but fun, and Brandon had been spending most mornings in the last moon watching Benjen drop his wooden sword a hundred times over.

Father’s face softened. 

“Keep an eye on your sister. I am trusting you to use that time to pay attention to our guest - how he acts, how he talks and how they get along without a larger public around.”

“I was already planning on doing that.” 

He imagined leaving his sister to go riding alone with a stranger, let alone with a Bolton and had to bite his lip. Her spending time with the Valyrian was already making him tense enough and the man was too wounded to stand up and too wrapped up in grief to even notice her.

Returning to his room, Brandon found his thoughts straying to Barbrey. The sight of her nephew had painted her clearly in front of him; her wide, lustful eyes and full lips. The way she looked, bathed in moonlight and with her skin flushed pink as she moaned his name.

The thought of it brought heat to his belly that was way different from the heat in his father’s room, but no less unpleasant in the current situation.

_ Stop thinking about it,  _ he told himself sternly, collapsing on the bed.

One day, the King will bring to him a bride and Brandon will need to be a clean slate; how could any woman respect her future king if she had laid with him before? But the thought repulsed him.

He didn’t love Barbrey, not beyond the allure of her flesh, though she might believe otherwise. He doubted he would be able to love the wife chosen for him any better though, for even though his conquests had been loveless, they had been his own choice.

He thought of Lyanna and Domeric Bolton with his aunt’s lips and his quiet demeanour.

If he had been presented with a woman and told he could decide whether he wanted her or not, could he do anything but refuse? But then again, Lyanna hadn’t truly been given a choice at all, simply led to believe she had one.

Somehow, closing his eyes, he found that almost worse.

_ Benjen and Ned are so lucky.  _ He envied his younger brothers; all heirs needed a wife and children and all daughters needed husbands but the spare sons had more freedom in the matter. 

The quiet dread of the future ended up lulling him to sleep, into dreams full of Barbrey Ryswell and her soft, warm hands.

The next morning, he and Lyanna competed against Domeric Bolton amids the morning dew and both lost and for the first time, he saw something like admiration in his sister's steel grey eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this chapter took so long. I was on vacation with my parents and thought I would be able to write but ended up unable to. The chapter itself gave me some trouble because I didn't have a lot of space to introduce Domeric and further the plot and I wanted to still show him to be somewhat complex.  
> For anyone worried, I am not planning on introducing any kind of love triangle here. Domeric has a role in the story but it's not of that nature. I like to think Lyanna simply has Arya's natural inclination towards befriending people and she is sadly aware and resigned to her status in the society enough to know marrying someone she's not 100% opposed to is as good as it can get.  
> Also, talk of marriage gives Brandon the heebie jeebies, what else is new.


	6. Rhaella I

_ I have been on the boat for too long,  _ was the thought Rhaella found circling in her mind as she clinged to the wooden bucket for dear life, fearing that her body would once again expel the meagre breakfast she had managed to eat that morning.

_ Lady Saera _ had already reached Stepstones, when news had reached them of violent rebellions in Tyrosh, Lys and Myr. No more than a moon had passed since the Doom and already, the people in the Freehold’s former territories were seizing the chance. All across the continent, whatever dragonlords remained after the catastrophe were swiftly getting eliminated one by one.

The crew had scarcely believed the tales at first, having grown up beneath Valyria’s topless towers. They did not know much of the Lords and their ways; that was why Aerys had chosen them to usher her away in secret. But Rhaella had grown up on top of them, had lived with dragons all her life and she knew differently.

Dragonlords were far easier to kill than most people believed.

At the end of the day, no dragon could save you from poison in your cup or knives in your back while you were sleeping and the might of Valyria that had kept those threats at bay had disappeared from one moment to the next. 

The resulting power vacuum was something those left in charge of the Free Cities and the colonies did not seem to realise and to her despair, they were paying for their mistakes dearly. 

_ Myr, Lys, Tyrosh. How long before the others follow? _

These days, it seemed her grief was the size of the tower she had spent her past couple years imprisoned in; looming and endless, growing larger and larger with every bit of news that reached them. Only Viserys kept the sorrow abay, her little boy, still childish and needy for her attention. Taking care of him let her forget her own woes, so she always took the time to listen patiently to his struggles with wooing the captain’s cat. The beast was a fat, old thing, deaf and with only one eye remaining but it was still fierce, to the boy’s great despair and her amusement.

But not even her son could vanish the malady that had begun to pester her in the past week. More often than not, Rhaella found herself confined to her chambers, leaving Vis in the care of the servants. Unable to find solace without his presence, she found herself growing more and more scared with each passing hour.

Scared, and sad.

_ I can’t afford to be sick now. Not when my kind are dropping like flies. Not when I have Viserys to think of. _

But the closer  _ Lady Saera _ came to its destination, the harder it was to cling to that belief. The horizon to the east glowed crimson with the fires still devouring Valyria; it made the crew nervous, until finally on the fifth day, the shapes of Volantis began to paint themselves in the place where the sea met Rhoyne. Black dots turned into sails and piers, a port that seemingly went on forever.

Unlike her servants, Rhaella found no joy in the sight. She had wanted to head to her family’s estate on Dragonstone or to Uncle Aemon in Braavos but the captain, a serious man in his fifties that went by Jaenys Jaha’ar had deemed the Narrow Sea too dangerous to travel.

“Winter storms.” He had spat into the water. “Gonna be some nasty ones too. It’s the ashes, my Lady. The skies are full of them.”

It was true that the sky had been covered in thick dark clouds for a while now, stretching longer than anything she had seen before but she saw no correlation between that and the state of water. Still, the man refused to budge on the matter, no matter how many times she reminded him that he was in her employ.

“The other ports, they’re not safe.” He had claimed. “We need provisions, we can’t stay sailing forever.”

And so it was decreed that they would be returning to Volantis, the last place still ruled by dragons.

_ Ruled by my enemies. _

She had little doubt what would happen to her and Viserys should another dragonlord find them.

_ If we were lucky, they’d simply execute us. Or they’d have us consumed by dragons, the way Aerys ended those Lords. _

It was a fate she had spared her elder son from and one she would do everything to make sure never befalls the younger either.

Sooner than she’d have liked, the  _ Lady Saera _ found its place in some part of Volantis’ large port. Above, she heard the planks creaking under the sailors’ feet as they went about their business.

“Mother!” Viserys entered her cabin with Enys, holding the old slave’s hand obediently. Swallowing her dread, Rhaella forced a smile on her face and spread her arms for him.

“Mother, are you feeling better now?” His voice was muffled into the crook of her neck. She ran her hand through his silky silver hair.

“I will be just fine as soon as we leave the ship.” She promised him. 

_ I’d have been even better if I could find a way to escape this heat. _ But such dreams were pointless. Volantis was not known for its merciful weather.

The heat seemed not to bother Vis much as he took the opportunity to crawl into her lap, throwing his arms around her neck as if he were still a babe.

“Young Lord, let your mother breathe.” Enys scolded, fussing about. The heat wasn’t kind on her either, Rhaella noted.

“It’s okay.” She reassured the woman.

“When will we leave?” Viserys demanded, face flushed with barely contained excitement. “I want to see the Long Bridge and the Black Walls. Father said they were made by magic and dragons of old, thousands of years go.”

She wondered when Aerys had time to fill his head with such tales; her brother barely had the patience for anything in those last few years. The only thing that seemed to hold his attention was fire.

_ Fire, and death. The two went hand in hand with Aerys. _

But in the end, the flames that took the Freehold had swallowed him too. She still hadn’t spoken to Viserys about that; she didn’t know how to even begin. The boy knew nothing about what had transpired before either. He still believed his brother was simply travelling and that they were going to visit Uncle Aemon in Braavos.

He didn’t know about the danger their kind posed to them.

“Is that so? You’ll have to tell me all about them then.”

She allowed Enys to give him a bath while the other slaves took care of her. Rhaella was certain they were new; her brother went through slaves so quickly that she didn’t bother remembering their names anymore.

One of them scrubbed away the old sweat and grime from her skin with practiced gentleness while the other brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver. 

Once she was done, the women helped her in her dress, a light thing made out of silk and lace that shone red like Valyrian sunsets. Her hands were decorated with heavy golden bracelets, engraved with ancient hieroglyphs and her hair was pushed from her forehead with an embroidered strip of silk, made to look like the feathers of tropical birds.

She felt disgusted at the charade; this was an outfit for a Lady of a city that was no more. It conveyed power and wealth she no longer had.

_ But I need to evoke the image of it anyway. I am the blood of a dragon and I need to look the part. _

Once dressed, she went to see the captain. 

She found Jaenys Jaha’ar standing on the deck and screaming obscenities at the sailors working below. Once he spotted her, a smile crossed his gruff face.

“My Lady, it pleases me you are feeling better.”

Rhaella opened her colouful paper fan, savouring the relief it brought her from the heat. Even with the sun setting, the air refused to cool.

“Thank you. I’m afraid I was not made for sailing.”

His green eyes glittered. He had pretty eyes, she noted, the colour of seaweed. Mixed with his silver-gold hair, longer than what Valyrian men usually wore, many women would find Jaenys Jaha’ar attractive.

“Of course. I hope you will enjoy the respite from it at least.”

“I am not planning on leaving the ship.” Rhaella told him firmly. “I want to head to Dragonstone as soon as possible.”

His expression grew serious at her words.

“My Lady, I assure you, you are quite safe in Volantis. The First Daughter is loyal to the Freehold still, now and forever.”

_ Now and until there is a dragon still living behind the Black Walls. _

“I would like to leave as fast as possible all the same. When do you believe the Narrow Sea will be safe to travel?”

“It’s hard to say, my Lady. I’ve never quite seen weather like this before. I’d say a moon at least, to be safe.”

_ A moon,  _ Rhaella though with displeasure. She didn’t wish to stay here for even a day; it was so close, too close to Valyria and right under a Lord’s nose.

“Are you certain it can’t be faster?” 

He shook his head firmly. “Not if we want to make the journey in one piece. I’ve heard the men say that not even dragons can’t make it through the Narrow Sea during a storm.”

Rhaella frowned.

_ If I had a dragon you could be certain I wouldn’t be here now.  _ But Aeghar had perished long ago, during the worst night of her life. It had been so long since then, she had forgotten what it felt like, to be skybound and free.

_ Not all girls are made for happiness. I certainly wasn’t. _

Sometimes she felt like a part of her died with the dragon. Or maybe it was the flames that consumed Maegor’s Palace that had numbed her, the same way they took Aerys’ sanity.

“Dragons can do many things,” she told him, “it’s the riders that struggle. My husband had paid you a heavy sum. Should I decide we need to leave, I expect you to listen to me.”

It was all she had to say on the topic. She could see from the expression on his face that he didn’t like it but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

She had already turned to leave when he spoke suddenly.

“What is my Lady so afraid of?”

Rhaella froze. Her shoulders tensed and she dug her nails into her palms to keep calm.

_ Hold your tongue and don’t look away,  _ her mother had once told her, the same advice she had given to Rhaegar the first time Aerys demanded him present for an execution. It had been her mantra for years.

_ But now there is no husband to rule me, no son to try to save me. _

The burden was suddenly on her own shoulders, unexpectedly foreign after all those years. She had been raised to be a Lady of House Targaryen but the life she had led had not allowed her much agency.

_ Should he suspect… _

Jaenys Jaha’ar would not be getting any more money from a dead man. He could get much more from a living Lord who would pay a hefty sum for his enemy’s wife and son.

It was true he had been nothing but kind to her and Vis so far, but Rhaella had been raised to be careful. Everyone was an enemy for a Targaryen in the Freehold.

“What weights on my heart is of no concern for you.” Her voice was cold like a starless night. “You have been paid to do one thing and one thing only; transport me and my son to Dragonstone. Mind your place.”

With that, she left the deck, seeking out Viserys to ease her worries. 

_ Have I misspoke?  _ She wondered.  _ Should I have lied, played a fool?  _

Resentment was a dangerous thing, she knew better than most. It was only a matter of time and luck and carelessly sharp words could turn into a knife in your back.

It weighed on her for the rest of the day. Tired from the heat, Viserys had fallen asleep soon, leaving her with no respite from the thoughts waiting to pounce from the corners of her mind.

“You can leave now.” She told Enys. “I want some guards in front of the door through the night.”

The woman said nothing of the request, bowing and leaving swiftly. Then of course, there was nothing she could have said. She was the property of Targaryens since birth, surviving both the destruction of Maegor’s Palace and Aerys at his worst. She had learned when to hold her tongue.

Sometimes, Rhaella saw herself in her but it was a comparison she didn’t like to dwell on. 

_ When we find a place to stay, I will free her. I can do that now that he is gone. _

Gently, she ran a hand through her son’s hair, careful not to rouse him. She would never let him come to harm, but it was a promise tinged with grief. It weighed heavily in her chest. Sometimes Rhaella felt like she was carrying a boulder inside her.

_ My heart has bled and swelled and with every disgrace my husband had wrought me, turned further into stone. _

But stone couldn’t possibly burn like this, didn’t feel like an open wound. Numbly, she remembered the rest of her children, all dead and gone now. Some had died before drawing breath, some in infancy but she had loved them all the same, once, had wept for them even.

And Rhaegar… Rhaella wondered where her firstborn was now. Had Aerys’ summons found him? Had he gone to fight for the father he wanted dead? If he had, did he die fighting or did the Doom claim him first?

_ No, he’s alive,  _ she told herself.  _ He’s waiting for me somewhere, wherever he went. He probably never even received the summons. _

It was the only possibility she could accept _ ;  _ the last time she had seen him still tearing at her. Rhaella had wept for days when she heard about the Doom, bed bound and locked in her room in order to escape the world that awaited outside. It was only the belief that those most dear to her are alive that let her go on, that let her smile for Vis and pretend nothing was wrong.

_ I was so harsh with him… I never got to say goodbye. I couldn’t bear it. _

It had the makings of a tragedy, how quickly Rhaegar had come and vanished from her life. He had been her lifeline, her darling firstborn and then her pride and joy and eventually her heartache. And then his presence had been reduced to just a voice, screaming for her while she looked away. It still echoed through her nightmares, reminding her of the hardest choice she’d ever made.

She had done all she could to help him and the only thing that kept her standing in face of Aerys’ wrath when he heard what she’d done was the faint shape of Tyraxes, fading into the western horizon.

Even if she never saw him again, her son had been skybound and free, the way she had once been too.

_ Rhaegar has never been found when he didn’t wish to be found. _ That was the belief she was clinging to now, the drive that let her push away even the fall of Valyria and the slaughter that followed. No matter how quickly other dragonlords were falling, she knew her son to be smarter than that.

She looked at the sleeping Viserys. Someday soon, they will be reunited, on the stony shores of Dragonstone. That was the future Rhaella was determined to fight for.

Before she knew it, sleep had claimed her, wrapping her in strange dreams of dragons and kin that had left her behind, fuzzy from the distance of the memories.

The monstrous heat of Volantis was choking her, boiling her from the inside but when she looked down the cabin was gone, replaced by endless grey rocks. In her lap was a dragon egg, heavy and glowing like molten rock. Desperately, she tried to push it off before it could burn her but her body would not obey. Hotter and hotter it grew, until it was more red than black and it burned through her clothes and the skin of her belly. Yet the more searing the pain was becoming, the more determined she was to keep a hold of it.

Somewhere, a raven cawed, a warning and a song at once. 

She woke up with a starle, barely managing to bend over before she threw up all over the floor. The bile tasted acidic and burned in her throat. She coughed wetly.

“My Lady,” Enys shook her roughly, pulling her to present, “you have to leave now.” The old woman had been the one to wake her up, dragging her to her feet in lieu of any other form of awakening.

Dazed, Rhaella felt her heartbeat pick up as her stomach rolled again.

“What’s going on?” She managed to get out.

“Trouble, you must leave.” Enys was already moving Viserys, lifting him as if he were still a babe. “There are guards on the pier, my Lady. They’re wearing white cloaks.”

_ The Dragon Legion, _ Rhaella realised with dread. That was what the Volantenes called the men in service to the dragonlords of Volantis. It had been one of her ancestors, Lady Alysanne Targaryen, who had started the tradition hundreds of years ago when she was serving as one of the triarchs. She had purposely evoked the likeness of the Conqueror’s Kingsguard in order to remind them of the power of her House.

What her decision eventually ended achieving was alienation from the other dragonlords. The High Families of Valyria never quite stopped viewing Targaryens as foreigners but in Volantis, the tradition of the Lords’ personal guard wearing white had stuck.

As had the unwritten rule that one of the three triarchs of Volantis shall always be a High Lord of Valyria.

“Mother?” Viserys whined, confused and ill-tempered from his interrupted sleep.

Her heart was beating loudly in her chest, so loud she thought the entire ship would hear.

“Shush.” She told her son, sharper than she intended. Her mind was spinning around like an endless ball of yarn and she tried in vain to find a solution.

_ They’re on the pier, we can’t get off the ship. _

The wood above their heads creaked.

“My Lady, you must leave. Take the young Lord and run, the rest of us will hold them off.” Enys pleaded, her large black eyes blown wide-open. She followed behind as Rhaella raced upstairs, not taking the time to pack any belongings.

In her arms, Viserys was preparing for a tantrum. He didn’t appreciate being roughly awakened and then immediately dragged somewhere and he was far too young to understand the urgency of the situation.

“I don’t want to go-” he cried, eyes glistening with stubborn tears.

“Silence. You need to be quiet right now, darling, can you do that? Can you be brave for me?”

His lower lip wobbled in a pout but he seemed to read her tone well enough to know not to push it. If anything, his pale lilac eyes showed fear if not comprehension. He understood enough to know if something made his mother afraid, he should be scared as well.

Pushing open the hatch that led to the deck, Rhaella squinted against the bright sunlight. When her eyes got used to the light, what she saw was white. White cloaks and white robes and glistering spears, standing in straight lines on the pier.

A line of about a dozen  Ghiscari sailors formed at the left side of the ship, armed with crossbows. Their dark, oiled hair shone starkly against the white legion waiting underneath.

“ _ If they as much as move, shoot! No mercy! _ ” Jaenys Jaha’ar shouted from the command bridge. His sea-green eyes met hers for a moment and she thought she saw relief flash across his face.

“My Lady, I am glad to see you safe.”

“Captain, what is going on?” She demanded, climbing the stairs to approach him. Viserys whimpered in her arms and clung to her tighter. She rubbed his back gently, hoping it’ll calm him down like it used to when he was a babe.

The older man frowned.

“These men have showed up here at dawn. The dragon triarch had seized power on Volantis, I heard. This is probably his doing but who knows why his kind does anything.”

Rhaella shivered despite the heat. In the current situation, removing the other two triarchs was the smartest thing the Lord of Volantis could have done but it didn’t make things any better for her.

_ How will I get out of this one? _

“Can we set sail?” 

Jaenys Jaha’ar shook his head and pointed towards where Rhoyne met the sea.

“See those ships near the exit? They’re battleships, they’re faster than us. We’d never escape.” His face was severe.

“Don’t worry, my Lady. The men will cover you so you can escape.”

Rhaella’s tongue was made of lead as she considered the tall, lavish buildings of Volantis. The people here didn’t believe in walking so the streets were built wide and airy - or at least, the important ones were. Nobody considered the areas where the rich merchants began to get outnumbered by butchers, smiths and beggars, that much was the same anywhere. Her grandfather used to say the rich build every city differently but the poor live much the same in Valyria or in the Sunset Kingdoms.

Somewhere behind the Black Wall, in the wealthiest part of the city, a dragon was waiting for her. Should she run, who’s to say she wouldn’t run directly into its maws?

_ Hold your tongue and don’t look away. _

_ Not this time. Not anymore. _

Whether she liked it or not, she had to make a decision now. Viserys’ life depended on it.

“We should hurry.”

It was as if her permission had been what  Jaenys Jaha’ar had been waiting for because things moved fast from then on. She and Viserys were grouped with Enys and the two women who had helped her get dressed the previous day while a group of sailors surrounded them, with the captain taking the front position, standing right before her. He would be their guide once they broke through and entered the city.

The moment the planks dropped, the Ghiscari archers fired and the Dragon Legion raised their shields to brace for the arrows. They didn’t have much time before Rhaella’s escorts descended upon them, crying out in various tongues spoken across Slaver’s Bay.

Armed with daggers, fists and short swords, they didn’t stand much of a chance against the highly trained Legion but they fought valiantly, creating enough chaos for her to slip past.

“This way, my Lady!” The captain called to her, practically dragging her behind him. Rhaella squeezed Viserys closer to herself and ran, ducking through the white-dressed ranks and stepping over the still-warm corpse of a sailor whose throat had been slit moments ago.

For a moment she nearly thought they’d get through; then her vision was suddenly blocked by white and one of the silver-haired servants made a guttering noise as a spear pierced her chest. Rhaella flinched away from the sight as warm blood sprayed her. The young man in the white coat pulled his weapon out of the young woman easily; their gazes met for a single moment. Then a screaming sailor pounced on him from the back.

She had no time to think before she was moving, dragged by her wrist through the final line of men and then the path before her was clear and the sounds of battle were becoming more and more distant.

She had no idea how long they had been running for; Jaenys Jaha’ar led them through many dark, narrow streets, twisting and turning so suddenly she lost track of where they were completely. The shapes of Volantis around her blurred into one long neverending mess. Her lungs were burning and there was a sharp pain in her side, growing stronger with each breath.. Enys had hurriedly offered to take Viserys from her many times but Rhaella refused no matter how much her arms ached from his weight.

When they finally stopped, her knees buckled underneath her. She fell to her knees, her vision swarmed by dancing black dots. She could not remember the last time she had exerted herself to this extent. Her body was not accustomed to it; it could not bear the exhaustion.

For a couple moments, her mind was completely blank. She gasped for air but no matter what, it felt as if she couldn’t get enough. Her stomach lurched and she felt she would have thrown up if there was anything left in her stomach.

The first thing she was aware of was the sticky blood on her face, mixing and merging with the sweat pouring off her. The next was the lack of Viserys in her arms.

Then slowly, other things came into focus. The cool tiles beneath her, a large black wall looming into the skies as far as the eye could see. A pale, limp hand.

“My Lady-” Enys started, her voice raspy and weak but she stopped before she could finish her sentence, eyes bulging. A gasp tore from her throat and her hands twitched instinctively towards her chest, dropping the sobbing boy she had been holding. Her legs gave out next and she fell flat on her stomach.

Jaenys Jaha’ar braced against her body with one leg and pulled out his bloody sword.

His face was cold and hard like the black stone behind him.

Viserys screamed, attempting to crawl backwards, away from the corpse but in his panic, his body did not seem to respond fast enough. He flailed helplessly, his lilac eyes blown wide and terrified.

Rhaella did not have the time to think before the silver-haired captain had lifted her son up roughly with one hand, the other holding the bloodied steel against his bare neck. 

Blood was rushing through her head like a roaring dragon.

_ No _

“What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was not as steady as she would have liked. Far from a command she wished it to be, it came out as barely more than a whisper but even with the faraway commodity of the city, the man heard her well enough.

“What do you think I’m doing?” His grip on Viserys tightened and he shook him roughly. “Goddamn it, shut up. If your wailing attracts anyone I’ll kill you both.” 

The boy’s sobs quietened substantially but the tremble of his shoulders betrayed his fear. 

The sight ignited a rage in Rhaella, the sense of anger the likes she hadn’t felt in ages. It burned through her like wildfyre and gave her the strength to stand up. Her legs felt numb and unsteady and her vision swan but she paid it no mind.

“ _ Don’t you dare lay a hand on my son. _ ”

_ Hold your tongue and don’t look away. _

If Jaenys Jaha’ar was intimidated by the ferocity in her voice, he didn’t show but his eyes narrowed tightened.

“You are in no space to make demands right now, my Lady. Until we meet Lord Belaerys, you are my hostage.”

Gaevan Belaerys of the Eastpoint Tower was one of the triarchs of Volantis and the rider of Zherion the Sunstealer. The dragon had been the pride of the Belaerys family for generations, beautiful and golden as the sun goddess he had been named after. By now, he was over two centuries old and had allegedly grown lazy.

Rhaella had no wish to meet the beast even so. She recalled the death of Rhaenyra Targaryen, consumed by her half-brother’s golden Sunfyre while her son watched.

_ History won’t repeat itself here. _

“Why not give us up to the Legion then? Why sacrifice your crew?”

The man’s handsome face twisted in a grimace.

“Do you think I’m stupid? Why would Aerys Targaryen hire a merchant ship to transport his wife and son if he didn’t want to bypass the notice of other Lords? I didn’t give a shit back then but as you well know, things have changed a lot. Why would I hand out my prize to the Dragon Legion when I can deliver you to the Lord myself and get rewarded for it? So what if my crew died. I can get a new one, with the triarch’s blessings.” 

His eyes showed no remorse, dark and terrible like an angry ocean. “I earned my coin by delivering spices from the Free Cities to Valyria but Valyria is gone now and Essos is on the brink of war. It’s nothing personal, my Lady, but a man has to survive somehow. Your husband has had the misfortune to earn the ire of the dragonlords and you have the misfortune of being his wife.”

_ The misfortune of being his wife.  _ The man had no idea.

It filled her with fury and sorrow that even now, even dead, Aerys’ choices still had their effect on her life and the lives of her children. The pain he had inflicted, the torment he had caused her, it never seemed to end even though she was free now, no longer a prisoner of Rhaenyra’s Tower, even though there were no more monsters, claiming her body and her bed.

_ No matter what, it always comes back to you. How much longer? Brother, why can’t I escape you? _

“You disgust me.” She told the captain. “You have no idea what you’re playing with. Do you think Lord Belaerys will honour treachery? No High Lord of any value will ever tolerate dirt like you daring to touch the blood of the dragon.”

Jaenys Jaha’ar laughed.

“The blood of the dragon? The time for dragons has passed, my Lady. Everyone knows that the blood of the dragon spills as easily as the blood of mud like mine. It’s only a matter of time before death knocks on Lord Belaerys’ doors too.”

Once his mirth had passed, he gave her a sign to follow him. With Viserys at swordpoint, she had no choice but to go along as he led her towards where the gates through the Black Walls stood waiting.

Their progress was slow; Viserys was still young and his steps were short and unsteady. All the while, fear coiled in her guts like a snake as she waited for the captain to lose patience with him. Watching the man strike her son while she could do nothing would haunt her for a long time, she knew.

Fortune was on Viserys’ side for once though because they reached the gates before that could happen. Manned by a dozen guards in white, the arch made of black stone was wide enough for three elephants to pass through simultaneously. It reminded her of some of the towers in Valyria but unlike in her old home, this construction was simple and mainly undecorated. The carvings portrayed dragons, sphinxes and manticores but there were no precious stones used by the stonemasons. 

Even at its most similar, Volantis remained a mere shadow of the capital of the Freehold.

“Stop there.” The men of the Legion surrounded them from all sides, ready to defend the nobles within the Black Walls. 

“My name is Jaenys Jaha’ar and I am here for an audience Lord Belaerys. Tell him I have a gift for him, Aerys Targaryen’s wife and son.”

One of the men, the commander if the gold on his helm indicated anything, gave an order and the spears pointed at them dropped.

“Your weapons.”

The captain gave up his sword unhappily, but kept a firm hold on Viserys. Rhaella herself was backed by two of the guards. It was senseless at this point; surrounded and with her son in her enemies’ hands, she had no reason to even attempt to run.

They were let inside the Black Walls shortly. Their path took them past temples and palaces, each more lavish than the other. The nobles of Volantis enjoyed prestige and riches of a port town and their wealth showed clearly in their buildings.

The dragonlord’s palace was different though. Rhaella had spotted it the moment they passed through the gates. The great dome made of coloured glass gave it away like nothing else could; she had little doubt that it was in there that the famed Zherion slept.

The closer they got, the more her stomach rose with nausea. A hundred possibilities filtered through her mind, none of them pleasant.

Aerys had executed two young men from powerful houses for the crime of attempting to poison him, though they had done no more than provide the poison to Rhaegar. That was an offense that wouldn’t go forgiven, that much Rhaella was certain of. There had been a war brewing before the Doom and she doubted Lord Belaerys would be any more merciful now that the rest of their kin was gone.

_ Please,  _ she pleaded to any Gods that might still be listening,  _ spare Viserys at least. Let him grow up and reunite with his brother. _

There was no reply but she never expected any, not from the Gods that let Valyria burn.

Lord Gaevan Belaerys was waiting for them in the great domed throne room. He was dressed richly in gold and white but nobody paid much attention to the man, not with the beast coiled behind him

Rhaella could understand why they called Zherion the Sunstealer. The dragon had scales of liquid gold and his hedge was pitch black. Age had allowed him to grow to a respectable size but his lavish lifestyle had turned him lazy rather than ferocious. He barely did more than open one golden eye upon their arrival.

At the sight of the dragon, Viserys stopped crying. His pale lilac eyes went wide with relief.

_ He thinks he’s saved,  _ Rhaella realised with a pang,  _ that the dragonlord will help him. _

Internally, she cursed Aerys again. Her brother had loved dragons and he had taught that same love to his son. Viserys had been heartbroken when he had to leave his hatchling behind, even after being told over and over that it was too young to be flown.

But he was barely five years old, he did not yet understand that not every dragon was safe or fun to be around, not when the only dragons he had known had belonged to his family.

“My Lord,” Jaenys Jaha’ar dropped on one knee. “I’m bringing you Lady Rhaella Targaryen and her son Viserys.”

Lord Belaerys paid little mind to the man, nor did he move from his golden throne. The light from the coloured glass bathed him in orange hues.

He knew exactly what he had been doing when he designed his throne room to fit a dragon. Though there was not much in terms of decoration, the construction itself spoke of wealth. The glass above painted everything in the light of divinity, making it almost feel like a temple and the man waiting seated there, a God.

“Approach.” He gestured with his hand in an almost bored way.

Led to the very bottom of the throne, Rhaella realised his demeanour couldn’t be further from the truth. There was no boredom in his soft amethyst eyes; they burned with a cold, clear light. The blood of Valyria was strong in Lord Belaerys; his features were noble and elegant and despite his age, he was nothing but handsome.

“Lady Rhaella,” his tone was sharper than a Valyrian steel sword, “I did not expect to find you in Volantis. I actually believed you had perished in the Doom, with your husband. Why is it that you are here now?”

There was an order in his tone, clear and direct. Zherion shifted lazily, a trail of smoke passing through his nostril.

Rhaella took a breath, willing herself to stay outwardly calm.

_ I am the blood of the dragon, I will not be intimidated by a Lord and his beast. I have a duty to Viserys. I cannot fail now. _

“My husband had sent me to Dragonstone.” She admitted. “I had no intention of stopping in Volantis, but the weather and the outbreak of rebellions forced my ship to retreat into the safety of your harbours.”

The Lord’s lips thinned.

“I see. So Aerys wanted to protect what was precious to him. Tell me, my Lady, how is it fair that you are here? Your husband had started another Dance, why is it that his family should deserve to continue living?”

She swallowed. Her heart was beating with the strength of a war drum.

“I have no control over that, my Lord. If the Gods have decided to spare us-”

“-the Gods.” Lord Gaevan snorted. “The Gods did nothing. The Gods did not send you away. This was Aerys’ will.”

“So it was.” Rhaella kept her posture.  _ Don’t look away.  _ “What does it matter? I had no hand in any of my husband’s actions nor did Viserys. Neither him nor I are guilty of no crimes.”

Her words incited him. He stood up in his seat and his voice went low and dangerous.

“You had no hand, you say. I know what you are, woman. Wife to monsters, mother of traitors. Tell me, my Lady, why should I show you mercy? I had two sons, once. They went to fight Aerys Targaryen and the Doom had taken them both. And yet here you are, with  _ his _ son, begging for your life.”

_ This isn’t going to go well. _

“I am sorry for your loss. But I am begging you, as a mother, spare my son. What happened to your sons had nothing to do with him; he didn’t call the Doom. We all lost our share in that tragedy.” 

Rhaella swallowed her pride; not that she had much of it left. She dropped on her knees and bowed her head.

_ Please, just not Viserys. Please, not my baby. I’ll give my life, but never his. _

“Your disgrace won’t bring back my sons. Only blood can pay for blood.” Lord Belaerys’ tone was dark with a dragon’s fury. He paused. “But - you are right about something. The Doom robbed us of many things, including certain choices. I am an old man, but not too old to have children yet, I believe. And the blood must remain pure. I would sooner mate with the wife of my enemy than dilute my bloodline by using a commoner’s womb.”

Her blood froze.

“You can’t mean-”

Something like victory passed his face, an ugly self-satisfied look. Suddenly, Gaevan Belaerys was no God, was just a man feasting on his petty victories. In his face, she saw Aerys as he used to be, before flames and sorcery twisted his temper into cruelty.

“You owe me sons, my Lady. Two heirs, that died from your blood’s folly. And every Emperor needs an Empress.” 

“An Emperor?” Rhaella could not believe what she was hearing. Her mind struggled to catch up with what the Lord was saying.

For the first time, she was Lord Belaerys smile.

“Mine is the only dragon left in the world. Valyria and its territories are mine to reclaim by right - I’m the only one who can continue the will of the Freehold and put this madness to rest.”

_ The Freehold knew no Emperors.  _ Rhaella knew better than to voice that thought. The chance before her was a slight one but she wouldn’t let her pride take it away.

“So I have an offer for you, Rhaella of House Targaryen, as much as it disgusts me to reach out to you with this. Accept me as your husband and your son will live. I will let him claim Rhaenyra’s tower to serve as a Lord in my court. If we have a daughter, he will be given her to wed.”

Rhaella recalled being a girl and being told she was to marry her brother. She had had no choice then and it was much the same now. The scars left by her marriage were still stark on her skin; some of the places where Aerys had scratched and bit her had yet to fully heal.

But she thought of Viserys, thought of Rhaegar, lost somewhere in the world, and knew her choice.

“Swear on your blood that you will keep your promise, my Lord, and I am yours.”

_ I’ve wed one monster. What’s one more?  _

A terrible numbness crept into her, like the chill of winter. Even as her new husband-to-be rewarded Jaenys Jaha’ar for his deeds and gifted him a mansion inside the Black Walls, she felt nothing.

Viserys had been torn from her and given into the care of a wetnurse and she watched impassively. He cried for her, much as his older brother had begged her nearly a year ago. But Rhaella had no words to spare, no comfort to give him.

_ He will live, that is enough. _

_ Why should I be angry? Nothing will ever change. Brother, would that you were still here with me, it would have been the same. _

When her malady continued the next morning and she once again threw up everything she’d eaten for dinner, Rhaella felt some of her spirit return with one striking realisation - her next child would not belong to Gaevan Belaerys. 

Nor, she thought, to Aerys because Aerys was dead and gone.

_ Rhaegar belonged to my parents,  _ she thought,  _ they were the one who wanted their Promised Prince, their prophesied wonder. And Viserys belonged to Aerys, an heir to be. _

_ But this one, this one will be mine. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting for Rhaella's chap for a while now. I initially wanted to put her as the 4th chapter but I wanted to space her and Rhaegar's chapters out a bit. This chapter is a bit longer than my chapters usually are because my uni is starting next week and I am moving so I predict the next updates will be a bit slow.
> 
> Unrelated worldbuilding fun fact of the week is that in this version, Daeron the Young Dragon was an explorer who want past the Sunset sea and back. He ended up dying after trying to repeat the journey but before that he wrote down his journal which is now known as Daeron's Journeys. Unrelated, there is also probably a book titled Daemon's Journeys about his grandpa, but that one is considerably spicier.


	7. Lyanna III

When Domeric had left, Lyanna surprisingly found herself missing his company. The heir to Dreadfort wasn’t very talkative but he was still an interesting conversation partner and charming in his own right. His company was anything but dominating; an aspect she found very endearing. On top of that, he was good with dogs and an excellent rider.

To this day, she still couldn’t believe he had managed to beat her. Benjen had teased her about it until she pushed him into a pile of snow. Lyanna was used to denial and rejection but this had been the first time in her life that she had tasted the bitter brew of defeat.

_ It’s unfair,  _ she thought.  _ The one thing I’m good at and a man shows up and does it better. Can I really have nothing to herself? _

Still, she ultimately understood what it was like to be on the other side of this envy. Most men she had competed against didn’t take well to the loss and so she found it beneath her to hold it against Domeric. 

Instead, she focused on daydreaming what being married to him would be like. They would go riding often, certainly, and they would take their children with them, even if they were girls. Maybe he could be convinced to let her carry a sword and practice with him in the confines of their castle - after all, she would still be a princess and he just a Lord. He couldn’t refuse her easily.

But the future seemed distant and far away, the visions foggy as if born of the morning mist. The children she would adore with all her heart were faceless shapes and the Domeric of her dreams himself did not look much like himself.

_ He’d be older, of course,  _ she told herself, but no matter how she tried, she couldn’t envision what an older Domeric would look. Nor could she think of any other activities they’d do together besides riding.

_ We’d talk for certain, but what more is there to do? _

Sometimes she wished her mother was still alive. She could confide in her and tell her about her worries, about the fears she didn’t dare voice even in the privacy of her own mind.

_ “It’s your choice, Lya.” _ Father had told her.  _ “I won’t force you, it was simply an idea. Out of Great Houses in the North, Domeric is one of the few your age and the heir to his house besides.” _

And Lyanna was grateful, she loved her father for giving her a choice. Most girls weren’t that lucky. She thought she could love Domeric too, as a husband she picked for herself. Reading over his words, she was convinced of it.

“Did Domeric send a raven?” Benjen leaned over her shoulder and she hid the parchment guiltily, blushing to the tip of her ears.

“It’s none of your business.” She told him. “If he wanted to write to you, you’d have a raven waiting for you right now too.”

Her brother looked a bit saddened by that and she felt a bit guilty. As the youngest of the Stark children, Benjen tended to be a bit lonely, a feeling she was familiar with. Brandon was too old to play around with him, Ned was in the Vale and Lyanna was a girl. He had been quite taken with the future Lord Bolton but as weeks flew by, it turned out the feeling was not quite shared.

Most likely, Domeric didn’t have the time to humor a boy younger than himself, when he was already tired from his travels. He complained of the exhaustion often in his letters and Lyanna always made sure to remind him how lucky he is to even have the chance to ride through the North like this.

She didn’t care if the company was gruff and humourless, if the nights were freezing cold, the meals poor and Lords inhospitable. If she was in his place, she was certain she’d enjoy every moment of it, would soak up the thrill of each individual snowflake falling across the pale lands.

“Do you think he’s going to stop here again, on the way back?” Benjen couldn’t let the matter drop. “Now that Father let me ride a real horse, I want to go riding with you. I’d love to see him beat you.”

She pushed him roughly and he staggered backwards with a muffled laugh that echoed off the narrow walls of the tower.

“Dream on.” She told him. “I’m not losing to him again.”

“But he will come, right?” Benjen asked again, this time more seriously. “Father said he was going to write to Lord Roose.”

Lyanna worried her lower lip between her teeth. It was true that Father said he would write to the Lord of Dreadfort when she came to tell him about her decision but a part of her didn’t want it to happen  _ that _ fast.

“We’re not getting married just yet, Ben.” She told her brother. “Father said it might not happen for many years now. Are you truly that eager to get rid of me?”

Her words were light but like a seasnake waiting to pounce below the surface, there was a mess of feelings waiting just underneath. This was what made her prefer Brandon’s company these days. Lyanna felt like once she gave her hesitant answer, everyone began to move way too quick and it was as if the choice she had made was more pleasing to them than it was to her.

Not her oldest brother though. For some reason he didn’t wish to disclose, Brandon seemed to be a bit sulky these days. He didn’t particularly care about Domeric either and while Lyanna didn’t appreciate his habit of losing his temper with the other boy, his lack of enthusiasm felt like a breath of fresh air on some days. In many ways Brandon and she were similar; similar enough that his behaviour felt like a less restrained form of her own feelings.

Unfortunately, he went hunting with his Albyn Snow today, leaving her with Benjen who for once had time to run around with her. He had even followed her when the maester came to inform her that a raven had arrived from Lord Domeric, clinging to her like a newborn foal clung to its mother.

“Of course not.” Benjen told her quickly, sitting carefully next to her in the rare clean part of the rookery. “Actually, I was thinking, I want to go with you to Dreadfort, if Domeric would allow it. I’m the third son, what are the odds Father is going to find some land for me? Brandon is going to stay in Winterfell and Ned is going to find a place for himself or go win some glory for himself in the South with the Storm Prince but you’ll be all alone there.”

It took Lyanna aback.

“Benjen… Are you certain? You don't have to tie your life to mine, you know. You can follow your own dreams, I’ll be fine.”

He frowned, flicking a feather from his breeches. 

“No, I’m certain. I don’t want to be alone but I want to contribute to something, in some way. I'm a Stark too and it's my duty to bring honour to the family name. Besides this, I was also thinking of joining the Night’s Watch once I earn my knighthood, but if you would let me, I would prefer to be by your side instead.”

Her heart swelled with deep affection for her brother. He was looking at her earnestly, all long limbs and grey eyes, so simple in his sincerity that she wondered if he could even comprehend the value of what he had just offered.

_ He’s still a boy,  _ she thought but she felt warmed by his declaration anyway.

“Thank you.” She ruffled his hair affectionately, ignoring his protests. “You are the best little brother I could have asked for.”

Benjen blushed furiously, swatting her hands away.

“I’m not little anymore. I’m taller than you and better with a sword too!”

Lyanna laughed, full of mirth even as the magic of the moment had been broken.

“It doesn’t matter, you’ll always be my little brother. And keep dreaming, Brandon tells me you’re still awful.”

“Brandon says that about everyone, it doesn’t mean anything.” He insisted heatedly. “I’ll prove it to you!”

The challenge lit a fire she couldn't resist. She pocketed the letter from Domeric carefully, reminding herself to write a reply later and stood up with her hands on her hips. Her mouth turned in a confident smirk.

“You’re on.”

That was how she and Benjen ended up spending the morning outside in the godswood, batting at each other with sticks and yelling the names of heroes past. To Lyanna’s bitter dissatisfaction, it ended up being more of a tie than a clear victory.

_ He really is growing up, soon he’ll be miles ahead of me. _

“I’m just not used to sticks.” Benjen defended himself. “My training is with a sword, you know.”

Still, he was nice enough to show her some forms and awkwardly paraphrase some of the tips that a more experienced fighter had clearly given to him at some point. Lyanna ate all pointers up hungrily, carving them into the stone of her memory.

Benjen’s secondhand advice would be all the lessons she would ever receive on sword fighting, she knew. 

By the time they stopped, her arms ached, her cheeks were red from the cold and her simple grey woolen dress was wet from the snow and stained with dirt. Benjen didn’t look much better though the hell Brandon had put him through in the past moon built up his stamina considerably. 

For the first time since the winter started, Lyanna felt like a little girl again. She didn’t think she had laughed that much in a long while.

“I’ll race you.” She told her brother giddily and immediately set off, not waiting for him to react. He caught up with her by the castle gates but never got to rush past her as she grabbed a hold of his tunic.

“Let me go!” He twisted mid run, trying hopelessly to shake her off. “Lya, that’s cheating.”

“Your long legs are cheating!”

“It’s not my fault you’re short!”

She blew him a raspberry. It was true that she wasn’t the tallest but neither were Ned or Brandon. Truthfully, Benjen might be the leanest of the siblings, all long limbs much like their father. Queen Lyarra had been a fairly short woman, Lyanna remembered and she had passed that onto most of her children.

Their chase had slowed down to a fast paced walk once they entered the castle. They both remembered vividly the incident when Brandon and Ned had crashed into Old Nan and had learned from their siblings’ folly. 

A couple floors from where their rooms were, Benjen suddenly pulled her off the stairway and onto the hallway.

“The maester.” He warned her in a hushed tone, a finger on his lips.

Lyanna paused. When she strained her ears she could hear the faint, shuffling footsteps that belonged to maester Walys.

She exchanged a look with Benjen, considering their state of disarray. One thought was stark on both of their minds.

_ He can’t catch us like that. _

She considered the floor they were on, a solution crossing her mind.

“Come.” She tugged at her brother’s sleeve, dragging him towards a familiar door. “Let’s pay a visit to Lord Rhaegar.”

She hadn’t seen the dragonlord as much when Domeric was still visiting and after the man had recovered a bit, Brandon had begun insisting she take one of her siblings or a guard with her while checking up on him. Lyanna hadn’t liked that much; she was fairly certain nobody would not harm her in her own castle but unfortunately, he was impossible to sway on the matter.

Still, she had brought Benjen with her a couple times. Her little brother was lonely and childish and full of life in the way Rhaegar seemed to lack completely; an odd fit certainly and the two of them never quite knew what to say to each other. Benjen had always approached with a wish to ask something, she could tell from the nervous fidgeting and the twitching of his mouth but each time, they ended up talking about some gossip the siblings heard from the servants or interrogating the man about various places in Essos.

They burst through the doors without knocking, breathless and muffling their laughter.

“Imagine if he caught us.” Ben giggled stupidly. “He’d tell Father for certain.”

There was nothing funny in his statement, but Lyanna found it amusing anyway. She felt winded and giddy and her mood was unusually good. Even the dull grey walls of Winterfell looked lovely to her in that state.

“Good afternoon.” She greeted the dragonlord, shamelessly. Rhaegar did not seem too perturbed by the intrusion. Or rather, she felt he didn’t care to be annoyed. The world around him hardly held his interest and that included the people. Whether she and Benjen were present or not didn’t matter much; it certainly didn’t hold any power under whatever worlds he had crafted for himself inside his mind.

In the past few weeks, he had recovered enough to be able to leave the bed and Lyanna had arranged him a table, chair and some candles so he could read. Despite that, they found him ignoring the chair completely and sitting cross legged on the bare floor next to the heath, staring into the flames as if they were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“Your Grace, Princess.” He nodded politely but didn’t bother standing up.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion.” Lyanna was not particularly apologetic and she was fairly certain her grinning face gave that away. “We are hiding from the good maester. You won’t give us away, will you?”

It was a useless question; she already knew he would not start calling for the old man to throw them out and the look he gave her told her he was aware of that too, though much too polite to call her out on it.

“I see.” Was what he said simply. “You are welcome to hide here.”

Lyanna took that as an invitation to roam the small room, stopping at the desk. The candle she had given him two days ago was nearly completely burned out already but the book he had open was still only about a couple dozen pages in. She traced the parchment lightly with the tips of her fingers. She did not recall bringing him this book.

“What are you reading?” 

His answer came in an awkward common tongue. He had improved a lot since she first started teaching him and she was somewhat impressed but clearly, reading and conversing still gave him some trouble.

“The History of Westeros. The maester gave it to me.”

Benjen winced in sympathy, claiming the chair for himself. 

“That’s boring. I’ve had to read that one too and I would have frankly preferred to eat it instead.”

“What are you, a goat?” Lyanna teased. “Besides, that’s just you, everyone knows that nothing goes into your head. You might as well have eaten it.”

“Hey!” Her brother protested, blushing furiously. “It’s not like you’re any better! Maester Walys said that Ned is the only one he would ever claim as his student.”

She swatted him on the shoulder.

“That’s out of context. He said to Father that Ned was the only  _ son _ of his he’d claim to have taught, I was clearly not included in that statement.”

She had been, unfortunately, included in Father’s resulting lecture. She swore she had never seen Brandon look as abashed. Nor Ned as smug. It was a strange look on his dour face.

“If he wanted to praise you, he’d have praised you.” Benjen shot back, eyes twinkling.

“Whatever,” Lyanna avoided his retort and turned to Rhaegar, “do you enjoy it though?”

He shrugged noncommittally, the movement nearly lost beneath the furs he had been gifted. Why he needed them while sitting this close to the fire was beyond her but then again, he came from the Lands of Endless Summers. That was, in her mind, as Southern as South went and everybody in the North knew Southerners couldn't take the cold. 

“It’s a history book. It’s interesting, somewhat.”

Benjen raised an eyebrow, giving her a victorious look.

“Somewhat.” He parroted. “See, even he thinks it's boring.”

“I never claimed it wasn’t.” Lyanna defended. “I’ve had to read it myself once, you know.”

With Benjen taking the only chair, she ended up throwing herself on the floor, leaning with her back against the bed. Doubtlessly, the Maester had already left by then but she decided to use her good mood to offer Rhaegar some entertainment. She would feel bad if she just left him to his misery after intruding on him so shamelessly. 

“I’m so exhausted.” She complained, picking strands of grass out of the skirt of her dress pedantically and flicking them away. “Ben, you didn’t need to go that hard on me.”

Her brother smiled fondly.

“Are you admitting I need to go easy on you?” He teased. 

“Ugh, don't go twisting my words,” Lyanna threw her head back until it hit the hard, wooden bed frame. Words would not come but she wished Benjen could understand what she wished to show him; the gratitude, the fear of the future and the devotion. “It’s just unfair, you have all this advantage now.”

She had no illusions that the gap between them would keep widening. His words from the morning were reassuring in a warm, familiar way but she could hardly believe them.

_ Would he really stay with me his whole life?  _

She had once believed the same for both Brandon and Ned. It had been automatic, assuming that they’d always be together. But then the boys they had been had grown into young men and suddenly both were outside her grasp. In time, Winterfell itself will be torn away too, with all the people. Married women don't return often to their childhood homes.

There was no way of turning back the time, she knew. And the silver-haired man before her was a living proof of that. 

Rhaegar’s face was calm as the surface of the lake as he gazed into the fire and his dark eyes stayed glued to one spot in particular as if there was something particularly interesting to be found there. He looked tired, she thought. The injuries and the moon he had spent comatose had weakened him, sharpening the edges of his face and making him appear gaunt; not that it made him less handsome in her eyes. Valyrians were known to be beautiful and that seemed to still hold true. But still, there was something fervent to his expression, a flicker of life that refused to flicker out. A spark she found herself inclined to nourish.

When faced with his grief, she couldn’t help but feel like a silly girl, upset that her brothers were growing up and building their seperate lives, leaving her behind.

“On the battlefield, there is no such thing as fairness.” Benjen said unusually solemnly, both hands grabbing the leg he had crossed over his thigh. “Brandon told me that. He said the men our father had slain in battle could wish to complain about how unfair it was that his armour was better quality, his sword was Valyrian steel and he had the best fighters in the North as his teachers. But in the end, we all work with what we are given and those men are dead while Father survived to marry and have children.”

The words sounded like something Brandon would say. Whether her brother truly believed in what he said or not, Lyanna knew not. She could not imagine him ever facing against someone while having such an obvious advantage and being proud of his results.

“I hoped to get a Valyrian steel sword one day.” Ben bit his lip, his grey eyes glancing nervously and suddenly she knew what he was going to ask.  _ Gods, Benjen. You really have swords for brains. _ “Ice is going to go to Brandon, of course, and swords are very expensive but I was saving for it.”

Lyanna sneaked a look at Rhaegar. He hadn’t reacted to her brother’s words, seemingly lost in his own world but she didn’t doubt for a moment that he had heard him clear as day.

_ He is going to make him ask him directly,  _ she realised with exasperation.

It was clear as day to her that Benjen didn’t know how to phrase the question without dredging up the topic of Valyria, something that they both perceived as directly disrespectful. His fingers drummed against his leg and he shot her a pleading look.

_ You’re befriending him, you ask  _ his eyes seemed to say. She rolled her eyes but after the grand gesture he had made earlier today she could hardly refuse him. 

“Do you know how Valyrian steel is made?” She faced the man directly, not beating around the bush. Nobody had ever accused Lyanna Stark of being subtle.

“I don’t have the skills to make it.” His tone was disinterested but at least he confirmed he had been paying attention. Stubbornly, he would not look their way, a habit Lyanna could have sword he had nearly gotten rid of. 

“But you’re Valyrian.” Benjen pointed out. “Do you really not have a clue?”

Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, his silver hair slipping from behind his ear. It had now reached the length where it was falling in front of his eyes constantly but too short to tie back yet, a stage that annoyed Lyanna immensely and she wasn't even the one dealing with it.

“You grew up in Westeros, do you know how to make iron or forge a sword?”

His point had been made. Benjen sighed heavily. 

“I do not.” He seemed discouraged by the answer. Lyanna understood him; it had been his dream to be a great knight and a great sword went along with it.

Rhaegar clearly took pity on him too because he continued in a warmer tone that got slightly lost in the clipped tones of his heavy accent.

“Even if I knew the exact procedure, nobody could do it now. It’s a Valyrian invention, you need blood and dragonfire to make it.”

_ Blood and dragonfire. _

His explanation sounded almost like one of Old Nan’s tales and Lyanna leaned forward in interest, her curiosity awakened. 

She had read, in the few books that Winterfell library had on the topic, that Valyria ran on dark sorcery. Blood sacrifices and magic had allegedly helped them tame dragons. The stories about the topic were many; some men claimed that the dragonlords had a habit of sacrificing newborns and virgins to the flames. Others claimed they mated with dragons to produce monstrous, half-human offspring.

But looking at the man before her, Lyanna hardly thought he had done any of that. Still, the world he had come from seemed fantastical to her, wrapped in shadows and mystery. It was absolutely forbidden and unimaginable and she wished to know more, an impulsive kind of desire to hold knowledge others did not.

“Why blood?” She asked.

Whatever interest Rhaegar had in the conversation had since faded. The quiet, dead look had settled in the elegant lines of his face again and he answered with a weary sense of duty.

“You can’t take without giving. But you can take a lot, if you know what to give in return. Only death can pay for life.” 

A silence fell over the room. Lyanna saw Benjen shift uncomfortably where he was lounging on the chair.

“That’s a strange philosophy to have.” 

It was more than just philosophy though and they all knew it. One of the logs in the heath crackled loudly and she nearly jumped.

Misery was such a human emotion that it was easy to forget the culture Rhaegar had grown up with was nothing but monstrous in the eyes of Westeros. The shadows of Valyria seemingly stretched further and further into the meat of Essos, swallowing cities and cultures with its many tendrils. They practiced slavery and sorcery, two things that the Seven Kingdoms despised.

But more than scared, Lyanna was fascinated by it. She remembered the story of Baela Targaryen, the last Dragon Queen. More than that, she recalled the curse laid on the City of Dragons.  _ Baela’s curse,  _ they called it, though others would go on to say it was the blood of the thousands peasants of Kings Landing, who have been killed by dragonfire, that had summoned the darkness upon the city.

A maester, Lyanna had forgotten his name, had proposed it was the Valyrians who had done it after they bathed the town in its fiery doom. The people of King's Landing had delivered Baela to them, bound and naked after slaying her dragon and taking her crown but instead of a reward, they received a painful death.

The man before her seemed much like any other person she had known in her life, but his blood held a legacy that had left its scars on Westeros that had yet to fade. There was allure to that thought, connecting someone in reach of her arms to the mysteries that had formed the tales of her childhood. She almost felt like a princess from a fairytale.

_ Or a brave knight,  _ she thought.  _ A hero with a burning sword who slayed a dragon. _

“I suppose a normal sword will do.” Benjen spoke hastily, breaking the strange mood that had settled over the room. “I will just have to work harder. It is the skill that makes the knight after all.”

He grinned at her. “Of course, a sword is still required. Sticks are a different matter entirely and don’t count.”

Lyanna stuck out her tongue at him.

“Skill is skill and you are a sore loser.”

“I didn’t even lose.”

“You might as well have. All this training and the best you can do is a draw against an untrained fighter? Truly the swordsman of this age. Songs will praise your name for this.”

Benjen kicked back in his chair.

“I’ll get you next time.”

_ You will. _

It was hard to say what they spoke of afterwards. Both she and Benjen were in high spirits and it was as if they were making up for the lost time of the past couple moons. For a single day, Lyanna was a child again and her brother was as familiar to her as the palm of her hand. The winter, Domeric, the betrothal and even the fears she had clung to since Brandon first decided their youngest sibling was old enough to train had slipped away. 

They bickered back and forth for what felt like hours. Why they stayed in Rhaegar’s room she could not say but even if the dragonlord had pointedly turned his back to them to return to his fire, his presence was the one thing Lyanna was starkly aware of the whole way through. 

When Benjen finally left, she made some excuse to stick behind. She didn’t need to say much; even though he knew of Brandon’s orders, he had enough faith in her to know she could handle herself just fine. 

_ And besides, his loyalty is to me, not Brandon,  _ she thought. And like the Wall, Benjen’s loyalty was unwavering. He might bicker and tease and grow into his spot in life, far away from the station her gender was pushing her into but at the core she knew he would always stand by her, no matter what.

_ Even at Dreadfort. _

“Does my brother make you sad?” She asked Rhaegar once the door closed and she heard Benjen’s footsteps fade away. “You haven’t spoken much.”

Not that he ever was talkative in the first place. But there was an evasive air to his silence now, one she didn’t quite know where to place but she was certain had something to do how he wouldn’t look the boy in the eyes.

“...” He closed his eyes as if reliving something and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. “I had a brother, once.” He told her finally, voice so soft it almost got lost over the crackling of the fire. Encouraged by her silence perhaps, he uncharacteristically continued. 

“Viserys was five years old. He liked dragons and wanted to be an explorer. There was no sense in his death - he hadn’t even truly lived.”

Lyanna had never known the little boy but the grief that dripped from his tone still echoed with her, pulling at some deeply buried personal feelings she hadn’t known she had. In that moment, it wasn’t Rhaegar’s grief exactly; she felt it starkly as her own.

“Is that why you keep looking at the fire?” 

He frowned mildly, puzzled by her question. 

“I’m looking for answers.” 

The desire for answers was something Lyanna was familiar with enough. It was a cruel chase, one that seldom yielded what one wished for.

“You won’t find your answers in there.”

Still -

-she thought she knew of a direction to point him into. A little guidance, maybe, and she hoped it would take root.

“Come with me.” 

He could not refuse her, she knew and for once she was glad to be a princess. Though visibly hesitant to leave the room he had been given, he still followed after her.

It was a slow stride. The castle was full of stairs and long hallways, things that exhausted whatever stamina the fever had left him. Taking pity, Lyanna had guided one of his arms around her shoulders thought she was somewhat too short to be a proper support.

_ How inappropriate,  _ she thought with amusement but she couldn’t seem to care abt it. She had a goal in mind that pulled her like a moth to the flame. All that mattered was getting there.

The crypts were cold and frigid as she remembered but her hand held the torch steadily, letting the fire dance around and cast strange shadows on the stone faces of the kings long gone and dead. 

Their steps echoed in the enclosed space ominously.

“This is where my ancestors are buried.” She kept her voice a near whisper out of fear of disturbing the dead. “They say they are buried with swords to keep their spirits contained.”

Of course, the oldest statues’ swords had long since rusted into nothingness.

“This is Torrhen Stark.” She pointed to one of the statues that stood out. “The King Who Knelt. He wears no crown because he gave it to the Dragon King.”

Rhaegar’s face was half cloaked in darkness but his eyes burned purple in the light of the flames.  _ A foreigner’s eyes _ , Lyanna thought.  _ The kind that didn’t belong down here, that had never entered this space before. _

But still, she led him further and further in, whispering to him the main achievements of various Kings, their stone faces as familiar to her as those of her family. She used to play with her brothers here before their mother had passed away and death became something sacred.

Once they reached the very last statue and the crypts in front of them continued into nothing other than pitch darkness, she stopped.

“This is my grandfather. He died in a war with the mountain clans in the Vale. I never met him.” 

She could see her father’s features in the stone and the man had had Brandon’s broad jaw and long nose. It made him look a lot less stern than some of the other Kings; those at the very beginning of the tunnel had faces completely unfamiliar, making her think of things too heavy to wrap her mind around. 

Bloodlines and time. The crypts beneath Winterfell showed the development of both.

“If you want the answers to death, you won’t find it in the fire, but with the dead.” She told him, the narrow tunnel repeating her voice a hundred time, as if the Starks of the past were speaking along with her.

They were both silent for a bit, letting the echo run itself out.

“I used to come here when my mother died. She was not a King so she doesn’t have a statue but her bones are down here too. There are so many others here with her that I felt less bad since I knew she wasn’t alone.”

It had been a hollow comfort but something to cling to in the darkest hours anyway. 

_ One day I will be with her too,  _ Lyanna used to tell herself. Like her mother, she would get no statue and no recognition in the long line of faces. One day, there would be a statue with her father’s face and one bearing Brandon’s too, but not hers, or Ned’s or Benjen's, no matter what they do or achieve. 

“Some of these Kings had horrible lives. They’ve survived betrayals and massacres and committed horrors of their own. And now they’re simply one more statue in the line and their pain only exists in the maesters’ accounts. That’s a given though, that we all end up down here one day. Victory isn’t survival, it’s the continuation of the bloodline. When you are alive, you share a space with the Starks above and once you die you join those beneath.”

When she spoke, her breath twirled in the cold like smoke, illuminated by the light the torch cast. 

“Don’t you think there is a purpose in not letting their efforts go to waste?”

Lyanna wondered if she went too far. Her heart beat in her chest furiously as the suspense of the moment built. 

In the darkness of the crypts, Rhaegar shone like a restless ghost, with his pale silver hair. His face was locked in the fervent search of something undefinable.

_ Not grief,  _ she observed,  _ or misery. _

She waited for him while he collected his thoughts.

“Why did you bring me here?” He asked at least.

“I thought it’d do you good.” She admitted. “Death feels different down here. It helped me when my mother died so I thought you would find it helpful too.”

He looked at her strangely, half confused and half starstruck.

“Why-” he paused, frowning, phrasing his thoughts carefully “-Why do you care?”

It was a strange question to ask, Lyanna thought. Brandon had asked her a similar question, once, when he had heard she had volunteered to help the maester with his patient and her answer had been very simple then too.

“Why wouldn’t I?” She countered. 

He wasn’t satisfied with that, an odd frustration crossing his face.

“No, but why - you didn’t kill me, that’s noble enough. Why care now? My life is my own concern.”

She gave him a look.

“When he met you, my Father told me ‘ _ This man is already dead. I can see it in his eyes _ .’ I never believed that though. A living, breathing person is not dead until their heart stops beating and I think everyone deserves to be offered a hand. I was born to live in this world, to do good things rather than bad, I like to believe.”

The soft glow of the torch settled on his face, illuminating his unusual eyes and the honest surprise that laid there.

_ Like gemstones,  _ Lyanna thought, out of nowhere. The thought made her flustered.

“You are very strange.” He told her, sounding somewhat amused.

“You are in no position to talk about strange. Compassion isn’t that rare to find, you know.” 

Rhaegar shook his head lightly in disbelief, a liveliness to the gesture that she was unused to seeing from him. Or perhaps, it was just the backdrop of dead Starks that made him look alive in comparion.

“There is no mercy amongst dragons.” He told her somewhat sadly. “The Gods have fleshed dragons for taking, not giving. If you falter, the Lords will eat you alive.”

“That sounds very lonely.” Lyanna didn’t need to know what he was talking about exactly to know that. She looked at the stone form of her grandfather and his familiar features.

_ Nobody was ever lonely in Winterfell,  _ she liked to think. The castle didn’t know secrets or seclusion.

“It was.” He agreed, giving her an odd look as if he had heard her thoughts. “You are very fortunate.”

_ I know,  _ she thought to herself.  _ I wish things stay like that forever. _

But such things, she knew, were to be left up to the gods and gods alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had most of this chapter already written in advance so I am able to still post it early-ish but from now on, I will probably have a lot less time to write because of uni.  
> I was quite ready to get this one done though because after like 6 chapters I felt it was time for Rhaegar to get somewhat invested in what's around him beyond what has happened and start getting out of his head more. From now on, I will finally be able to actually have him interacting.  
> Also, ofc, I was also excited to show some of Lyanna's feelings on the Domeric situation.  
> It's very late for me now that I'm publishing this so I hope you forgive me for any grammatical mistakes there.


	8. Rhaegar II

In the grey halls of Winterfell, the passage of time seemed to flow unnaturally fast. With every passing day, the mornings came a little quicker, the sunlight lasted a bit longer and the air seemed warmer, not that it mattered much as the North remained and would always be dreadfully cold.

Rhaegar found himself despising it, even as his strength began to return with the slow arrival of spring.

It had been months now since he had arrived into the care of the Starks. The burns along his shoulder had begun to close and scar over, an ugly reminder of what had happened. The maester warned him not to expect full mobility on that side, completely oblivious to how little that mattered. 

Despite the progress, the pain remained. The wounds would flare up with the intensity of angry hornets, mostly at night, creeping into his dreams with the deep, persistent sensation of  _ burning _ . There was not much logic behind it. There would be days when the pain would be minimal and then there’d be times when it was an all-present haze that had him biting his lips raw.

“It is simply in your mind.” The maester, a shrunken grey shadow, had told him. 

_ A maester from the Sunset kingdoms would know nothing of curses. _

For there was a little doubt in his mind that the shadows that haunted him were real, as real as ghosts. He could feel their weight, pulling down on him with impossible strength until he had no will left to fight them off with.

_ Only death can pay for life. Only life can pay for death. _

At night, he couldn’t sleep and in the mornings, he couldn’t get up. He’d lie wide awake and aware that he should move but he couldn’t quite manage it. It was as if something had shattered in his head, making his thoughts spin uselessly without the strength to  _ do  _ anything. Even the simplest tasks would leave him exhausted beyond reason and to his frustration he couldn’t even blame it on his injuries anymore.

_ Why should I even get up in the first place?  _ He closed his eyes, breathing deeply and evenly.

There was not much reason to move. The castle was big and busy but there was no place for him in its activities and he had yet to venture beyond its grey walls. The maester had brought him books and Rhaegar had tried his best to read them but he couldn’t seem to focus on most days.

It always came back to the striking oddity of sitting in this plain room, on the other side of the world, while everything he had known and loved had ceased to exist. It didn’t seem real, no matter how much he dwelled on it. The world around him felt like a vision seen through a looking glass; not quite there and far beyond the reach of his arms.

It was hard to care when there was no reason to.

His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of the doors opening and he winced despite himself. 

_ Of course fate won’t let me actually rest in peace. _

There came the one single reason to get up before midday, or at all, barging it without knocking as she always did lately.

Then again, Rhaegar had no illusions. Lyanna Stark was the princess of this castle; every room and every door belonged to her so she could do exactly as she pleased. She had shown him nothing but kindness so far but it didn’t change that his life was in her hands.

Why she had yet to throw it away, he could not tell. There was little use to him without the might of the Freehold and Tyraxes standing behind him and she had never asked anything of the skills he might still possess. Yet despite that, she would always show up like clockwork. In the morning, if she was alone and in the afternoon if her brother came with her.

“Good morning! I hope I didn’t wake you.”

He fantasized what it would be like to not reply. She would be annoyed, but probably not enough to kick him out because of it. 

It still didn’t sit well with him anyway, a flicker of sentimentality he had only recently found in some dusty corner of his memory. Something had changed in those crypts but he couldn’t put a finger on what. The oddness that had spurred him to say more than he had intended to back then had passed but sometimes…

...sometimes things seemed a little better than they used to, because even though none of it seemed real, he knew that  _ she _ was. She would sit there for hours, telling him about the lives of the cooks and the guards and the blacksmith’s family, not caring if he had no reply for her and somehow, breathing seemed a little bit easier for it.

“You have not. I’ve been awake for a while.”

It was more than he thought he had the energy to say and certainly more than he wanted to admit for fear of judgement.

“Couldn’t sleep?” The Princess’ eyes were the colour of steel but despite this, there was a softness to them, a trace of something he found strikingly unfamiliar. 

“The sun is starting to rise earlier.” He answered instead. It was not what she was asking but it was all he could say. There was no way to explain and no reason to. At the end of the day, she was a princess and he was less than a servant, because at least servants had their uses.

She pursed her lips but accepted his answer with grace.

“That it does. It will be spring soon, thank the Gods. This winter was the hardest we’ve had in a while.” There was a soft sadness to her voice. “I’ve missed the sun.”

Strangely, Rhaegar found himself echoing her longing.

“I don’t imagine you see it often here.”

She laughed, seating herself at the desk. “You’d be surprised. I promise Winterfell isn’t always this dull and boring.”

His doubt must have shown itself on his face. “Stop it. You’d love it here in summer. We get a great deal of travelling merchants, acting troupes and singers then and the summer snow is the best for snowball fights.”

“Summer snow?” That was a terrifying thought, one that made him want to cover himself with blankets and never leave his room. “I don’t think there should be snow in summer.”

“Take it up with the Gods then.” Lyanna sounded amused. “Do you even have snow in the East?”

She asked questions like that often. It used to annoy him to no end when he had been trying his best to keep his thoughts in present, focused only on that around him but he had since learned there was no maliciousness behind them. Lyanna Stark simply possessed a curious mind; he imagined it was also the reason for her continued visits.

Not that he could blame her. Everything was so lifeless around here that he would find himself eager to hear about the outside world too, were he in her shoes. Even Lyanna herself was all in whites and greys, the colours of her house, nearly merging with the walls. The only lively thing on her were her eyes, wide and warm.

It was far from what he imagined a Princess would be like but he had learned Northerners were unique people. Perhaps more so than his people gave them credit for.

“Essos is bigger than you think. The weather in Braavos is entirely different from Volantis. But no, we didn’t have snow where I lived.”

He remembered seeing snow for the first time. His father had taken him riding with his dragon, back when he had been younger and saner. They had gone far up to the mountains, where only Dragonlords could reach. The terrain was all jagged rocks and ice and the falling snow smothered all noise. It had been terribly lonely, even with his father right beside him. He hadn’t liked it then and he held no love for it now.

That seemed to be the answer the Princess was waiting for from the start. Her face was long and guarded but purpose and anticipation showed on it readily

“How do you feel about going out then?”

_ Very negatively,  _ but he couldn’t tell her that. After all this time, the debts he owed her were heavier than even the ashes of Valyria that he couldn’t wash off. His mind, it seemed, was that of a dog; even when individual thought was hard, obeying the orders he was given came easy.

It was the only thing that did.

“It’s cold.” 

“It’s nearly spring.” A whine crept into her voice, for despite her compassion she was still only a girl. “You Southerners are so sensitive.”

_ You Southerners. Does she really see no difference between me and some Lord south of the Neck? _

“I suppose.”

In the end, though Lyanna Stark wasn’t someone one could deny, she had given up on her agenda, only to hound him immediately the next day. 

“You haven’t seen the castle right? Let me show you around.” Before he could even open his mouth she added: “Don’t worry, we won’t be going outside. You shall be spared from the dreadful cold for one more day.”

The tone had been mocking but Rhaegar couldn’t find it in him to resent that, too busy being grateful that she wouldn’t be making him face the frigid Northern air. 

He didn’t remember much of his landing but the memory of the storm and air so cold that it  _ burned _ stuck in the corners of his mind. He shivered.

She quirked her eyebrow.

“You  _ really _ can’t stand the cold can you?”

“The place where I grew up was very warm.” He defended himself half-heartedly. It was somewhat of an understatement because Valyria was more than just  _ warm _ . He remembered the rivers of molten rock, hotter than dragonflame, running around the city.

It had once been said that only the children of the dragon could bear to withstand the climate and in truth, there hadn’t been many foreigners living there permanently. He wondered how Lyanna Stark would have handled the weather.

_ She’d probably melt,  _ he decided.  _ Like a lost snowflake, straying too close to the heath.  _

The first thing she showed him were the towers, robust things with narrow stairways that stretched longer than he cared to walk. By the time they reached the top, he was completely out of breath and regretting not heeding the maester’s advice. For once, it seemed like the man had something smart to say when he had suggested rebuilding his stamina slowly.

The Princess, for her part, was patient with him.

“We’re nearly at the top. I promise you that the view is worth it. I can show you much of the grounds from there.”

Rhaegar sincerely doubted that the view would be worth it. He had seen the world from the back of a dragon a thousand times; what tower could compare? 

“This part of Winterfell is called the First Keep. It’s the oldest part of the castle.” Leaning against the window the girl pointed east. “You can see Wintertown from here, and the Kingsroad.”

True to her words, a glance in the direction she was pointing showed a gathering of houses, gathered together in what one might generously call a town. The architecture was unfamiliar to him; the roofs were sharp in their incline and covered in snow.

In fact, as far as he could see, the land was covered in white that shone against the daylight bright enough to strain his eyes. He had to blink furiously to clear his vision and allow the dark spots to shape into trees. It seemed like the castle was situated on a clearing and surrounded by forest.

Lyanna Stark surveyed his response with an expectant expression.

“That’s… a lot of snow.” He said intelligently, filled with a strange kind of respect for the people who had settled in a land such as this. In an equal part, the sight filled him with fierce homesickness. If there was such a thing as the opposite to Valyria, he believed this was it.

Somewhere beyond the snow-covered streets of Wintertown, beyond the forest and beyond his reach was home, with its familiar bustling streets and smooth black towers. He had travelled a lot when he had been younger but never had the world felt so impossibly big. It was overwhelming.

Leaning against the window in this strange land and facing the endless winter, he could do little but stare. 

“It was a harsh winter.” The Princess commented but her words sounded far away to him.

His hands formed a white-knuckled grip around the windowsill and he bit his lips as the action caused his left arm to light up with pain.

All at once, he found he could no longer deny the reality; not when it was staring him so directly in the face, not a lone room but an endless expanse of foreign land. There was not a speck of familiarity to be found for the Freehold had never reached for the Sunset Kingdoms.

_ Home really is gone. _

The realisation came with an ache that had nothing to do with the knotted scar tissue or the burning in his lungs.

_ Stupid. Did you ever think it wasn’t? _

“Hey.” Lyanna Stark was looking at him with her large grey eyes. “What are you thinking about?”

He willed his mouth to move.

“I’m simply admiring the view.”

“Uh-uh.” She did not appear to be convinced. “So you were ignoring me on purpose then?”

He paused, unable to formulate a response that wouldn’t be dreadfully rude. The words felt clumsy in his mind and what little grasp he had on Westerosi seemed to be beyond his grasp.

“I didn’t hear you say anything, I apologize. It was not intentional.” He settled for in the end, defaulting to Valyrian.

The Princess frowned, displeased. She was a lonely girl, he understood, still half a child with two brothers who seemed to be beyond her grasp and a father that had, at some point, merged with the crown he wore. With that in mind, he was not surprised she was frustrated with his avoidance but for reasons he could not account for, she seldom pushed for more.

He found it unsettlingly kind that someone who so clearly longed for connection would let him keep his distance in such a way, when both of them clearly knew she could force it.

A part of him found it sad. Even in his brief time in Westeros, he had grasped that the confines of this society weren’t particularly kind to anyone, least of all motherless girls.

_ Stop that. You aren’t her caretaker or her friend. _

Lyanna Stark was a stranger and she would need to stay that way. For all he knew, his sympathies would have been wasted on her. With bitterness that refused to fade, he recalled just how easily people of Westeros turned away once they understood just which Valyrian noble family he belonged to. There was little sense in getting attached when with their history, he would never be perceived as anything but a villain. 

“I was just explaining that if you look through the western window, you can see the Goodswood.” The girl continued on, in a normal tone of voice. Perhaps he had been overthinking things.

“I thought I’d also show you the Library Tower and the Great Hall, if you want to.”

_ If I want to.  _ Her earnest pushiness was definitively absent there, something he ought to be glad for.

“I’d like to stay here a bit longer.” The words tumbled out without much thought behind them. For some reason, he felt as if that was what he should say. 

Tearing his eyes away, he faced the snowy landscape again. 

“It’s very different here.” He spoke sadly.

“You can get used to it. It’s not a bad place to get used to.” 

Rhaegar thought about Rhaenyra’s Tower and its stifling presence. It had been where he lived but when he thought of home, it was the streets he thought of, the busy port where merchants from all over the world came to sell their goods and the backdrop of the Fourteen Flames in the background.

He was certain nothing would ever be able to replace that.

“There are worse places.” He agreed softly.

True to her nature, the Princess didn’t let him stay in one place for long, too eager to show him the rest of the castle. Still, he made himself a promise to come up there again. If his thoughts could think of such a thing as salvation, he would find it there, he imagined. Something about heights made it easier to think.

Afterwards, she showed him the Great Hall and the kitchens, eventually finishing the trip in the Library Tower. 

“You should pick something you want to read.” The Princess suggested. “The thing maester Walys gave you is really boring, I can’t blame you for not being able to finish it.”

Her recommendations began and ended with what seemed like an assortment of children’s stories, bound together between two fragile-looking covers. He wondered if he should be insulted.

“My mother used to read these to me when I was little. The tale of Brave Danny Flint was my favourite, though I don’t like the ending much. One time when a travelling bard visited, he sang the ballad about her life and taught Benjen and I how to dance to it.” A smile ghosted her lips, wishful and fond. 

“Once the spring comes and the winter snows melt again, there will be moments like that again.”

Fiddling with the fur-lined sleeves of her dress, she continued. “Back to the book, I know it seems simple but it might be easier for you to get used to the language. There is a lot of history of the Seven Kingdoms hidden within these tales too.”

It was a logical suggestion but it was hard to summon some interest for it.

“I will give it a look.”

Satisfied with that, she left his side to dig out some scrolls with the scheme of the castle, attempting to explain to him why the walls were warm. As it turned out, Winterfell was built on top of warm spring and the engineers of ages past had constructed it in such a way that the water flowed through it.

It was an impressive construction, even by Valyrian standards and he told her as much. Though, then again, his people had never needed to heat their buildings as the climate was warm enough on its own.

“Are all castles in Westeros built this way?” Perhaps they had done wrong to underestimate the Sunset Kingdoms.

“I believe it is just Winterfell, though it is said that Brandon the Builder, the man who constructed it, also helped with several castles in the South. That is the stuff of legends though and the Southern Kings would never admit the North had any hand in building their keeps.”

He was, at that moment, beyond grateful that he had ended up at Winterfell and not any of the other Northern keeps. 

Encouraged by his brief curiosity, Lyanna Stark went on to point out every significant space on the map, showering him with long stories about everything from the various Stark ancestors who had built them to the gossip of the servants she had been privy to that even briefly involved those parts of the castle. Despite his best attempts, Rhaegar began to lose track of everything as the Princess was a very enthusiastic but not very organised storyteller.

In a way, he had been glad when the arrival of the King, accompanied by the familiar grey-clad form of the castle’s maester put a dam in her torrent of words.

“Father,” the girl paused, pleasantly surprised, “what are you doing here?”

The King gave his daughter an amused look.

“This is still  _ my _ castle.” He pointed out. “I’m afraid maester Walys and I will require the library for today. We have certain things to discuss.”

“About the Ironborn?”

The man waved her question away, clearly unwilling to discuss it with the current company. Rhaegar wondered if he should bow in greeting, the way the servants bowed to the Princess before dismissing the thought and settling for just lowering his head in a gesture of acknowledgement.

There were lengths he would not sink to, no matter how indebted he might be to this family. 

_ A dragon is not a slave,  _ his father used to say and he would not be a servant either. 

“Does Prince Brandon know where you are? He agreed that it is quite inappropriate for a woman to be alone with a man.” The maester took the opportunity to scold.

The Princess scowled. 

“As the Lady of this castle, it is my duty to take care of our guests.” There was a challenge in her tone and a pout to her lips. It made her look childish, which was probably the opposite of what she intended.

“Admirable as that is, there are servants who can help with that.” The old man wasn’t cowed. Rhaegar found himself annoyed by his persistence.

“Am I only allowed to keep the company of women then? You might as well lock me in my room as I am the only Lady in this castle.”

Before the maester could reply to that, the King cut in, ending the debate.

“That is enough. Maester, I appreciate your concern, but I would much prefer my daughter spend her time like this than to see her harassing the blacksmith’s boy again. I trust her to not do anything inappropriate.”

“ _ I wasn’t harassing him! _ Mikken was just showing me how iron is cast.” This seemed to be a fight Lyanna Stark was particularly eager to pick, stomping her feet and furrowing her brows.

Her father sighed, a stern look snuffing out her rebelliousness.

“A blacksmith’s work is dangerous, Lya. It’s not a place for you to be underfoot.”

Changing the topic, the man spoke up again: “My Lord, I have been meaning to pay you a visit one of these days. It pleases me to find you on your feet. I hope my daughter hasn’t been bothering you too much.”

Rhaegar did not expect to be addressed so suddenly and it took him a couple moments to formulate a proper response. 

“I owe my recovery to Your Majesty’s aid, a debt that I can never repay. The Princess had been a pleasant company.” His Westerosi was far from great yet and he cringed internally. Rickard Stark intimidated him like his daughter never did; everything from the permanent crease in his brow to the steel of his eyes let Rhaegar know that this was not a man to cross lightly.

_ Hold your tongue and don’t look away. _

There was not much to his life that he could lose, but a coward’s instincts were hard to shake off, it seemed. He couldn’t help but be on edge.

The man looked at him as if he could see right through him.

“I see. I am glad to hear that. I have recently come upon some news that might interest you. The Lord of White Harbour reported what Essosi merchants are saying. It seems that a dragonlord named Gaevan Belaerys had crowned himself the Emperor of Valyria and left Volantis with thirty thousand men to reclaim the capital.”

“Then he is lost.” Rhaegar found himself saying. A chill had crept over him and it was as if he had suddenly left the warmth of the sun in favour of the shade. 

“Essos is a bloodbath. Pirates, rebellions and Dothraki are tearing everything asunder. Though it is quite risky, this is the perfect time for someone to claim such a title. A single dragon might not be much but against men who have none it is plenty.” The King’s harsh features were schooled in an uncompromising frown.

_ And Zherion the Sunstealer is not just any dragon _ , he remembered. He had seen the beast once from afar, before he had even laid a claim on Tyraxes. Golden and beautiful, it was a ride fit for a king.

“He could march with a whole garriston and the Black Dread himself and it would change nothing. There is - Valyria is…” His tongue felt numb and he tasted ashes in his mouth. It was before him, in that moment,  _ a sea of blackness, smoke so thick you couldn’t tell up from down and the cruel glow of molten metal. _ He remembered, and he knew his convictions to be true.

“Nobody can enter Valyria and live. The Doom doesn’t last a day or two, your Majesty. It will live upon the land until the end of time.”

_ It’s the only thing that will.  _

Maester Walys fiddled with his sleeves.

“It certainly is likely that the so-called Emperor will meet his fate if he draws near. An eruption from all Fourteen Flames at once would take a long time to cool.”

_ That’s not why.  _ A Westerosi maester could never understand it, not when even the Elders of Valyria could not bring themselves to believe in it.

It wasn’t just the heat and the smoke that would kill all things living there but the evil had no name and even Rhaegar wasn’t certain of nothing but its presence. 

Rickard Stark shook his head remorsefully. 

“The situation in Essos isn’t likely to improve then. That won’t be good for trade. The Ironborn-” he stopped himself in his tracks. “Well, that is something to consider. I appreciate your input, my Lord.”

Rhaegar hoped he nodded in reply but he couldn’t be certain. His thoughts were far away and the world around him seemed fragile as a dream.

_ Gaevan Belaerys,  _ resounded in his mind,  _ yet another of Valyria’s children to die. Do the Gods hate us so? _

There was no answer to be found, nothing to be done here, halfway across the world. 

The news weighted on him heavily and it was as if he had just awoken in this strange place all over again. For the next couple weeks, there was little peace to be found anywhere.

And then, Lyanna Stark dragged him outside for the first time. The snow was unpleasant and reminded him too much of nearly freezing to death, the mud was annoying to get off his boots and there was something about the Godswood that felt ancient and forbidden and made his hairs stand up. He would not enter it, no matter how much the Princess and the older Prince mocked him for it.

But - there were faces he could now put with the stories. There were many odd looks at the beginning as apparently, the servants had been quite concerned he would be performing some kind of dark magic, but after a week or so, nobody paid him any mind and he was free to wander where he wished to.

It became second nature to climb one of the towers and sit on the windowsill for hours on end, until the ache of his burns forced him to move.

And a bit by bit, the spring everyone awaited so eagerly drew nearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, without doubt, the most mopey chapter so far and it took me so long to write because with university work I just wasn't in the mood. My life has been pretty busy since the last update and I'm sorry that it took me this long.
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoy.


	9. Brandon III

The ravens arrived at Winterfell at dawn, ominous dark spots on the horizon. Brandon had been roused from sleep hurriedly by maester Walys and dragged to his father’s chambers before he even fully understood what was going on.

The last time he had attended to the King anywhere but in his study had been when his mother had died. Brandon had been a boy then but he remembered the severe expression on his father’s face and it matched the one he wore now.

“I’m calling the banners.”

By the time he left, the sun was high up in the sky and the hallways of the castle were buzzing with the chatter of the serving maids. He passed them, feeling dazed. Like smoke from a bonfire, a dull anger seemed to stick to him, blurring his vision with its crimson hues.

_ Find Lyanna,  _ he told himself but his own rationality prevented him from following through. He needed to approach this with a calm mind; so instead, he headed to the training yard where he found his youngest brother with the master-at-arms.

“Ben.” He called. “How do you feel about trying out a real horse?”

The boy dropped his sword, excitement and confusion mixing on his face in equal measure.

“Are you serious?”

The master-at-arms, an old knight named Benton Bole did not hesitate to use his lack of attention to whack him with the wooden practice sword, making him yelp. 

“Never take your eyes off your opponent, your grace.”

Brandon winced in sympathy. Unchanging as the cold Northern winter, the old man was still as gruff and unrelenting as he had been when Brandon had been a child setting foot in the training yard for the first time.

“You have been old enough for quite a while now, it was only due to the heavy snow Father insisted you stick with the pony. He learned his lesson with me and Lyanna, I suppose.” If Benjen turned out to be anything like his siblings, he would run before he could walk.  _ Wolf blood _ , the man had called it and it ran deep and true in their veins.

“Yes!” He whooped, forgetting his newly acquired bruise immediately. “Where are we going? And what horse will I be taking? Will Lyanna come with us?”

“Slow down.” Brandon grinned fondly, ruffling his hair. His brother’s excitement was like sunshine after a long, dark night but at the same time, it felt woefully undeserved. He missed the time when he could enjoy the company of his siblings freely.

_ How can we place such a burden on him? _

But Brandon had been younger than this when his own duties had been entrusted to him; born with the ghostly promise of a crown to settle upon his brow, he had never truly existed for his own sake. “ _ A firstborn son belongs to the family in a way his siblings never do.”  _ Mother had told him once and as usual, she had been right.

“Ser Benton, have you seen Ethan?” 

The master-at-arms grumbled, annoyed with the interruption of his session but too respectful to tell him off. 

“If I know the young Lord, he’s annoying the wenches in the kitchen.” There was some fondness hidden behind the exasperation, an observation that had Brandon resisting rolling his eyes. Strict as the old man tried to be, House Bole was sworn to House Glover; to Ethan, he was bound with affection while his ties to the three Princes he had instructed were grounded in solemn duty.

“Be ready when I get back. We’ll pick a horse for you together.” He warned Benjen before setting off to search for his troublesome squire.

_ Honestly, he should be serving me from all ends. Why am _ I _ the one going around, looking for him? _

True to the prediction, he found Ethan chatting with one of the serving maids, a slim girl with hair the colour of straw. He told her something in a hushed tone and the girl blushed furiously.

Brandon cleared his throat loudly.

“May I have a moment of your time?” 

The two broke apart immediately, the girl paling when she spotted him at the doorway.

“Y-your Grace.” She stuttered. “I was - We weren’t…”

He sighed. “Go back to work.” 

“My Prince, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The young man asked sheepishly once the maid scattered away. He wasn’t sorry at all; that much was plainly obvious even if one hadn’t caught him in a similar position many times before. He was a comely youth, and a future Lord of Deepwood Motte, both of which was attractive to the female servants.

Were he in a better mood, Brandon would have played along with his antics but as it were, there was a somberness he couldn’t shake.

“Meet me at the stables.” He ordered. “We’re going for a ride.”

Sensing his mood, Ethan sobered up and jumped to his feet like a model squire.

“Should I bring your bow?”

That had Brandon raising an eyebrow sardonically.

“Ethan, have I  _ ever _ made you bring me my bow? Bring yours and I’ll take care of mine.” He sighed. “My brother is joining us as it is so don’t expect much excitement.”

Moreover, it was not excitement Brandon sought. There was unrest in him, the kind of unsettledness that begged to be unburdened but could not be said out loud in the confines of the castle. A man grown, he was familiar enough with his own moods to know this was an energy he had to burn off before he attempted anything.

_ Gods.  _ He thought once again, frustration welling up.  _ I didn’t even like the kid. _

Unsurprisingly, Benjen showed up before Ethan did and Brandon helped him pick a horse from the stable. When he had time, he liked to come down there and take care of his stallion and talk to the stablehands. Short of maybe Lyanna and the people who worked there, there was nobody who knew the animals in the stables better.

With that wisdom, he picked a dapple grey mare for his brother. She was a gentle thing but stubborn enough to provide him a challenge.  _ After all _ , Brandon thought,  _ Benjen needs to grow up fast now. He can’t be coddled. _

He taught him to saddle her properly and what behaviour to watch out for, forcing himself to be patient but firm.

“Never approach a horse from the back, a bull from the front and a fool from any direction.” He warned the boy. “Father told me that when he gifted me my first mount.”

“I already knew that.” Benjen swung himself into the saddle as gracefully as a lanky teenage boy could. “You’re acting like I’ve never seen a horse before. I rode a pony, you know.”

Brandon considered him from below and Gods did he feel old, looking at his youngest brother sitting straight and proud on a proper steed of his own. A bittersweet feeling bloomed in his stomach, making him run a hand through his hair.

_ Old enough to ride, old enough to die. _

“Look at you, too old for the King’s wisdom, eh? Ponies aren’t the same; there’s a reason why they are given to children and skittish women.”

“Lyanna would kick you if she heard you say that.”

He rolled his eyes. One would have thought his sister would have understood that she was  _ obviously _ excluded from such statements but that seemed to be beyond her. The reminder soured up his mood.

_ I’ll have to tell her. I promised Father. _

At that moment, he wished Ned was here. It had felt like an eternity since he had longed to see his brother’s dour face so strongly and he nearly resented Father for sending him away and leaving him alone to handle everything because Benjen and Lyanna were his siblings, but they were to be looked after and not relied on, not in the way he could rely on Ned.

_ Ned _ , he admitted to himself,  _ would know what to say. He’s good with words like that. _

The King’s second son was thoughtful where Brandon was brash, slow to move and slow to anger which was precisely why he had been the one sent to the Vale to make friends with the Baratheon Prince and King Jon Arryn.

Maybe it was what happened with Domeric, he pondered once Ethan showed up and they set off, but he couldn’t help trying to envision what his brother looked like now. He was older than the Bolton boy had been but whenever he tried to imagine him battling for his life, all he could picture was Ned on his first day in the training yard, messy-haired and nearly buckling under the weight of his wooden sword.

_ I might have not liked him or thought he was good enough for Lyanna, but he was someone’s child. That could have easily been one of us - if Roose hadn’t sent him around the North at that time, Father might have sent me to do the job. _

They didn’t ride far; despite his proclamations, Benjen was uncertain in his saddle. It was clear King Rickard’s worries were for naught; he didn’t take after his two siblings in his recklessness nor proficiency.

Instead, Brandon led them into the Wolfswood. Ethan and he had made the use of the area there where the trees stood further apart and set up a dozen or so small targets to practice archery from a horseback. It had been an idea borne more out of boredom than anything else; there was no real need for them to pick up that skill but it had been a source of entertainment that did not leave Brandon feeling guilty afterwards for having been wasting his time.

Even now, he clung to the idea that this was time productively spent. He was helping Benjen and polishing his own skill; as far as clearing his head went, Brandon reckoned he was being quite productive.

“Watch.” He instructed his brother as he kicked his stallion into a gallop, settling into the familiar feeling of the animal’s movements beneath him. Once he found his balance, he drew his bow and in one sharp motion, pulled an arrow from his quiver. 

The first target approached quickly and he only had a moment to fix his aim on the center of the target - at the last moment, the stallion shifted and his arm was jolted upwards, making the arrow fly harmlessly into the greenery.

Cursing slightly, Brandon didn’t have the time to be annoyed because the next target was approaching quickly.

In the end, he hit five out of a dozen, three of which were far from the center.

Ethan and Benjen tried their best to keep a straight face but he could clearly see the quivers in the corners of his squire’s lips.

“Go on, do better.” He mocked. “You didn’t even hit one the last time.”

And in truth, Ethan was no longer as amused once his own tally came up to a total of one target hit. 

“And this is why you’re still a squire.” Brandon told him. In truth, he had considered knighting him a couple times before; when it came to skill with a sword, Ethan was his peer. In the end, he had always held back selfishly. The young man who was his closest companion had been sent to Winterfell to train with Ser Benton, a training now long since completleted. 

Though he would struggle to admit it even to himself, Brandon feared to lose the company.

“Do I have to try as well?” Benjen asked shyly, bringing his gloved hands close to his chest as if to protect himself.

“Some other day when you’re more comfortable with the steed. Try just riding through it for now.”

Time passed easily that way. The tasks at hand kept him busy and slowly Brandon found himself relaxing. The dangers of the future seemed far away when he was on horseback, with the cold Northern wind biting into his face.

But sooner than later, his peace shattered.

“Ben.” He called his brother, after he had sent Ethan to collect the arrows. “We’ll need to go back now. I’m sure the master-at-arms is getting impatient waiting for you.”

The boy looked put off. 

“Can I go with you the next time you go to practice too?” There was a childish determination in his eyes and Brandon knew that one way or another, he had just introduced a challenge for Benjen to overcome.

_ Good.  _ He thought.  _ He needs to practice his archery and he’ll need to get used to the horse quick. He’ll be the Prince of Winterfell while Father and I are gone. _

“We’ll see what Ser Benton says about that.” He didn’t want him to get his hopes up for nothing; at the end of the day, daylight was sparse and the old knight might be reluctant to allow for a regular intervention in his training.

_ Training, we all need more training.  _ He eyed Ethan’s form as it appeared amidst the trees, waving at them with the arrows he had collected in one hand.  _ If it comes to battle, there can be no mistakes. Any wound can be fatal with poor luck. _

Despite his declaration to head back, Brandon found himself lingering. Noticing that, Benjen pulled his mare to a stop.

“What is it?” He asked. “Did you see something?”

“A fox maybe.” Ethan suggested, excited at the prospect of a hunt. “Wyl said he found paw prints when he was patrolling the other day.”

Tearing his eyes from the woods, Brandon shook his head.

“It’s nothing.” 

Benjen wasn’t convinced.

“You’ve been weird all day. Is something happening?” There was a specific tone in his voice that only little brothers could use, one that told him the boy was trying to sound mature and would be offended if his efforts weren’t recognized properly.

_ Is something happening? So much is. I’ve spent so much time standing still, I can hardly balance now that the ship began to move. _

The anger flickered again, boiling his blood and seeking retribution. 

“Domeric Bolton is dead.” He found himself saying, almost against his will. It felt surreal to say out loud.

_ Gods, and the betrothal has only been officially declared less than a moon again. _

“ _ What? _ ” His brother paled, his large grey eyes blown wide open with shock. “ _ Domeric? _ How?”

“Ironborn raiders attacked his party at Cape Kraken, a day’s ride from Flint’s Finger. Apparently, they retreated once they recognised the Bolton sigil but Domeric got hit with an arrow in the initial attack. By the time they returned to Flint’s Finger, the wound was already infected. Lord Flint sent ravens to Father and Lord Roose.”

The parchments included Domeric’s own account of the skirmish, something Brandon found impossibly morbid. The fever had snuck up on him late, deceiving everyone, including Domeric himself, into a false sense of security. He had even written something for Lyanna, assuring her that by the time she would be reading his words, he would be half recovered already.

_ Always yours, Domeric,  _ he had signed off, not knowing that by the time the sun rose and set again, he would be gone from the world and that the words he used to sign off would be his last goodbye.

He had no intention of showing his sister that letter but he felt for Roose Bolton. In all likeness, the Lord of Dreadfort had already received the last words from his son and if they were anything like his letter to Lyanna, the dead boy’s optimistic reassurances would tear into an already weeping wound.

Benjen opened his mouth and closed it in silence, a miserable look settling on his young face. He had liked the Bolton boy, Brandon remembered. In the end, the young Lord had been rather easy to get along with.

The silence was filled by Ethan clicking his tongue.

“That’s bound to get nasty. Roose is going to demand action. Domeric was his only son.”

“My father is calling his banners. I’ve been trying to talk him into it for a while now but it seems he needed a final push.” Somehow, Brandon didn’t feel victorious. “We’re going to go all the way from the Sea Dragon Point to Cape Kraken to drive off the raiders.”

“You and Father will be going too?” In the winter air, Benjen’s voice sounded small.

“A King who won’t lead his army himself will never be respected in the North.” That much was indisputable; the Southerners might follow claims and titles but the people of the North were the blood of the First Men. They would follow strength.

As a future King, Brandon had to earn that respect, a task that seemed ever so daunting.

_ Will they look at me,  _ he wondered,  _ and see a green boy? Can I prove that I am worthy of being Father’s heir? _

“You’ll have to watch over Winterfell while we’re gone, Ben.” He told his little brother. “So you’ll need to be brave and train hard.”

The boy didn’t look encouraged.

“Domeric was brave.” He chewed on his lower lip, clenching the reins in a crushing grip. “And he trained hard. Father said he would be a good Lord one day.”

For the second time that day, Brandon wished Ned was there. When their mother had died, Ned had been the one to clasp their younger sibling’s hands and lead them to the crypts while Brandon had raged, kicking the wooden frame of his bed and punching the wardrobe until his knuckles bled. Father had pulled him back then and embraced him tightly. It was only then, with Father’s permission, that he had allowed himself to weep.

Back then it had been grief fuelling the anger. Now it was fear. Fear because that could have been Benjen, it could have been Ned.

Because he couldn’t help pondering on Domeric Bolton’s fate and imagining how it could have easily been another young boy in his place, how it could still very easily be another boy in the future if it turned into a drawn-out conflict.

“He would have been,” he agreed for the lack of anything else to say, “if it weren’t for the Ironborn. That’s how things are. Sometimes those who show the most promise are taken from us before their time. But Ben, the world goes on. We’ll avenge every drop of Northern blood those bastards have spilled, I promise you that much.”

He declared it earnestly, his promise echoing across the desolate landscape. He hoped that the Old Gods heard him; he would hold himself accountable to make it come true.

“An eye for an eye.” Ethan joined in. “It’s way past time the King put a stop to that bloodshed.”

Benjen held his gaze downcast and the wind ruffled his brown hair gently.

“I’d rather you stay safe.” He muttered.

Brandon ignored it. Benjen meant well, but he was a child and had the wisdom of one. There was no sense of duty to the crown in his world yet; no decisions existed for him but those made completely freely and those made for him. 

_ The North follows strength,  _ his Father’s words echoed once again.

_ Only a weak man doesn’t stand up to defend against the boot that kicked him. _

No matter how he spun it, it was all the same. The Ironborn had written their fates in the blood of the innocent and Brandon swore if Gods wouldn’t act upon the injustice, then he would. 

“There’ll be little danger with the Northern army beside us.” Ethan attempted to comfort but his words felt like a slap to Brandon’s face.

“It doesn’t matter how dangerous it is - it must be done. They’ve been sacking our villages, stealing our food and murdering our people for most of the winter. I’ll save their heads for it.”

If he had his way, Brandon would have ridden for that cause moons ago and he was more than glad to be able to do it now. Like spider web, doubts and concerns still held him back but he was certain that once he broke into a run, he would be able to tear them off and leave them behind.

He longed for it - to ride freely and follow his heart fearlessly.

“Does Lya know?” Benjen’s question broke him out of his thoughts and he shied from the quiet accusation in his brother’s gaze.

“I told Father I would be the one to tell her.” He admitted. “I’m going to find her once I get back.”

A part of him regretted ever stepping up for the task. It would have been easier to let Father handle it but - the man looked tired and older than Brandon had ever seen him look and there was a voice telling him this was his chance to step up and prove himself.

“She’ll be in the Godswood right now.” The statement was casually confident and Brandon didn’t doubt for a moment that his brother was right.

When he thought about it, Lyanna had always gone to pray before sunset, though recently she had been making changes in her schedule in her attempts to befriend the sullen Valyrian bastard she had picked up in the snow that day.

Despite his initial distrust, Brandon grew to be fairly ambivalent about that. There wasn’t much to be done regardless because engaged or not, nobody could shame his sister into having a sense of decency.

_ Not that Father ever tried to. _

When asked about it, the King had been unconcerned. 

_ “Dragons,”  _ he had said, _ “are strange creatures. The less there is of them in the world, the more dangerous they are and dangerous enemies make for formiddable allies.” _

“Well,” he commented darkly, “at least she’ll be in the right place.”

The look Benjen shot him told him he didn’t find it funny but it got a chuckle out of Ethan.

“I pity the Princess.” His squire commented solemnly once his amusement faded. “Barely betrothed and she already lost her would-be-husband, and they seemed to be getting along quite well too.”

That much was true and Brandon found himself pondering about it on the way back. Lyanna’s engagement had left a sour taste in his mouth to begin with but the distaste didn’t fade. Domeric or no Domeric, she would still have to marry someone and he held little doubt the choice would be any more her own than it had been the last time.

Not that she knew about it. All this time, Lyanna had been handed the belief that the decision had been her own and as much as it frustrated him, he saw no reason to take that comfort from her.

There was no name to his frustration, nor was there solution because the blame laid in the direction Brandon would never point his finger in. All he could do was weather through it and hold back the dissatisfaction once it came to his own future match.

He found her before the heart tree, as Benjen had said. She must have heard him approaching because she was actually kneeling before the tree now but Brandon could see her sweat-soaked hair cling to her forehead in dark strands. Amongst the leaves nearby, a carefully sharpened stick laid inconspicuously.

_ Praying, as if,  _ he thought dryly.

“Bran, what brings you here?” She asked innocently enough but beneath the surface, her tone was challenging.  _ You saw nothing,  _ she might have as well said.

“Can’t a man come to pray in his own castle?” He feigned ignorance, extending the banner of peace. 

_ Do as you wish, little sister, because Gods know you won’t let anyone tell you otherwise. _

“A man can.” She agreed. “But you seldom do. Did something happen?”

_ Is it that obvious? _ Brandon thought with some annoyance.  _ Everyone keeps asking me that today. _

He cleared his throat and settled next to her, watching the small lake next to the heart tree. The water was very still and dark as the night sky. It reminded him of his father’s face when he had to hand out the King’s justice; the grace in the hand that carried out the execution.

“Father is calling the banners.” He told her, because it was easier.

“Against the Ironborn?” Lyanna guessed, a curiosity in her gaze. “I thought he might. He has been spending a lot of the time in the library lately, with just maester Walys allowed to keep him company.”

This piece of information bothered him.

“I’m guessing he was preparing just in case.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose.  _ Gods why is this so hard.  _ “Lya, listen, there’s something you need to know.”

She tilted her head, a serious note to her attention now. Almost like a wild beast, she seemed to sense something dangerous in the air.

“You’re being very ominous.”

“Domeric Bolton is dead.” He told her finally and watched as the words sank in. Her face shifted, from open calmness into something more vulnerable. Then just as quickly as it appeared, the fear vanished, replaced with a frown and a look forged with steel.

“Don’t jest about these things.” She hissed, jumping to her feet. “I know you have no love for him but this is going too far-”

“-Do you think I’d joke about something like that? Before the heart tree?” He caught her wrist firmly, holding her in place. “He’s  _ dead _ . Roose Bolton is going to want revenge so Father is calling the banners at last.” 

Lyanna struggled to get out of his grip, pulling wildly with surprising strength. Her body was acting seemingly on pure instinct as the mind struggled to comprehend the load that had been dropped on it.

“ _ Let go! _ Domeric wouldn’t just die like that!”

“How would you know? You’ve known him for what, a couple days?” Brandon couldn’t help but bark back. This conversation was spiralling out of his control quicker than he predicted and he wanted desperately to return back on even ground. “Please be rational. Father has enough on his plate without you throwing a tantrum.”

_ I promised him I’ll handle this and I will,  _ he didn’t say.

“ _ How can you say that! We wrote letters!  _ I know him better than I know you, these days!” There was moisture in her eyes now, making them glitter like gemstones and her words were teeth, poised at his throat. “ _ Just let me go! _ I’m going to speak to Father.”

“Didn’t you listen? I said Father has enough on his plate right now.” He grit his teeth in frustration, forcing himself to stay calm. 

He was the heir to the North, he could handle the storm his sister threw at him without flinching. Her temper did not scare him any more than the howling of wolves in the Wolfswood kept him up at night.

“ _ I don’t care _ .” She broke free at last and set off for the castle at a brisk pace. Brandon cursed and followed after her, their footsteps breaking the stillness of the place. “Father won’t lie to me.”

He caught hold of her shoulder and pulled her to a stop just before she exited the Godswood.

“You’d believe that.  _ I’m not lying to you _ .”

Turning around like an angered wildcat, she slapped his hand away.

“I’m talking to Father.” She repeated, iron in her voice and he realised it didn’t matter at all what he said to her right now, because much like him, Lyanna leaned towards anger. Their fights had always been fierce because of that but right now, he forced his temper in check.

Any force pressed upon her would only fuel her fire now.

“Fine then. Talk to Father, he’ll tell you the same thing.”

With that, he let her go, watching her break into a sprint across the courtyard and vanish amongst the walls. 

_ She’ll calm down,  _ he told himself. Father could always reason with her in a way Brandon couldn’t; it seemed he wasn’t ready for that part of his duties quite yet.  _ I should give her a couple days and then apologise. She won’t object to that. _

Dragging a hand through his hair roughly, he turned in the direction of the training yard, a sense of unease settled into him. More than anything, he longed for a good fight; if he was lucky, Ethan would still be there.

_ He has been spending a lot of time in the library lately,  _ Lyanna’s words resounded in his mind. Preparing for the upcoming war, doubtlessly. 

Roose Bolton had been trying to undermine the King’s position, Brandon reminded himself once again. He had been parading Domeric around to charm the Northern Lords.

It raised a possibility he hadn’t considered before.

_ Did Father know how dangerous it was when he assigned Domeric this task?  _ He shook his head violently, trying to shake off the thought like how a dog would shake water from its fur.  _ It doesn’t matter. To plan for it would have been a cunning move; it gave him a reason to attack the Ironborn, it removed Roose from the game completely and with Domeric engaged to Lyanna, nobody could accuse him of anything. _

He would never know either way and selfishly, Brandon was content with that. There were things, he was realising lately, that he did not wish to know. 

_ Father would never resort to something like that,  _ he decided.  _ His justice is straightforward. But that maester… _

Maester Walys was a southerner to the core. Brandon had been sceptical about him from the beginning. How could a Hightower bastard advise the King in the North? But advise him he did and Rickard Stark considered his counsel just as much as he listened to his Lords and more than he paid attention to Brandon’s own opinions.

It gave Brandon a headache, all of it. Too much to keep in mind, with subtlety that went against his nature and nothing to act on. 

_ Give me a sword in my hand and blood to shed and I’ll never lose my way. The war can’t come fast enough. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, I bring you dead Domeric. Tomorrow, who knows.
> 
> In all seriousness, him dying was essential for the political part of the plot and I can now say that we've moved from the set-up to things starting to happen, yay! I really wanted to spend more time establishing him and Lyanna because this will definitely be something she won't forget but if I slowed down any more, it would kill the pacing completely. So that was why the Domeric chapter took me mf forever back then.
> 
> Anyway, I lowkey grew to like writing Brandon. Also, Rickard. I don't think he was a complete schemer but the way he established connections in the South so quickly and subtly enough that even Aerys 'Paranoia' Targaryen didn't notice it makes me think he was def one smart guy and here he'd be even more protective since he's running an independent kingdom. Whether he actually planned for this to happen or not is up in the air, but I think he knew it was a possibility and prepared for it.


	10. Lyanna IV

As soon as the morning sun began to rise, Lyanna went to pray, the last wisps of sleep still in her eyes. Her dreams were restless lately, full of blood and unspoken words so she took on the habit of waking up earlier than she was wont to before. Even awake, the scent of death still followed her and the chill winter air seemed to be the only thing to cool her anger.

She didn’t know who she was angry at. The Ironborn, certainly. Her father, for refusing to tell her about the raids and trying his best to keep her in the dark, like some sheltered _child_ , in addition to the bitterness of knowing that Domeric might not have died if the man had acted on the threat all those months ago. Brandon, for claiming she had barely known Domeric and looking at her as if she had no right to grieve.

_I knew him, I did. He liked to ride and read and he played the harp._

The heart tree looked on, without an answer for her but its leaves seemed to whisper in the wind.

 _I knew him. I loved him._ She clung onto that. She had been going to marry him, spend her life with him; how could she not have loved him?

“What do you know of love, child? It’s easy to love a man dead and buried for he will never wrong you nor will that love call for work.” Old Nan tsked at her, knitting calmly in the corner of her room. After the morning prayer, Lyanna had her breakfast brought to her room, unwilling to face anyone. In what might have been a show of concern or simple condescension, her father sent the old woman to keep her company.

Thankfully, it had mostly been a quiet company, besides the clicking of her knitting needles, but even that drove Lyanna out of her mind. It was so normal, so mundane and it felt as if she was being forced to pretend nothing happened.

“I’m not a child. I know what love is.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut through flesh. “It’s not my fault I won’t get to live it.”

Unbothered, Old Nan tsked again.

“If you knew what it meant to love, you would know it to be a terrible thing. Love makes a man go mad, they say. When I was a girl, my own grandmother told me a story of a man, a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch who coined his dreadful reign with frost and terror in the time when old legends were coined.”

“You’ve told me about it before.” Lyanna sulked. “The Night’s King. It would be a frightful tale if it weren’t made up.”

The old woman chuckled, a hoarse sound. “Is it made up now?”

Lyanna had enough of this conversation.

“Did my father send you here to tell me children’s tales and waste my time?” It would certainly be in character for him to do something like that. Gods forbid he actually talked to her and included her in anything. “If he was truly a man, he would come and talk to me himself.”

Old Nan put down her needless and for a moment, Lyanna almost missed the noise.

“What a terrible thing to say about your father.”

 _I don’t care,_ thought Lyanna. _I’ll say every terrible thing that comes to my mind until he gives me a reason not to think them anymore._

But such a thing would have to wait. Day by day, Winterfell was in disarray, preparing for the gathering of the Lords who had sworn their fealty to the Starks and nobody was busier than the King himself. He had no time to offer to his daughter in her grief, no words to spare except for the curt explanation she had been given.

 _Good, I don’t want to see him anyway._ But every day he stayed away made her angrier, months of bitterness overflowing until this wasn’t even about what befell Domeric anymore. 

It didn’t matter who was talking to her now, from Old Nan to Martyn because Lyanna would snap at everyone. It wasn’t as if she intended to and afterwards she would feel bad but at the moment when she had to bear another person’s company all that was on her mind was how unfair it all was.

It was unfair because she had barely got to know Domeric enough to know she could have been happy with him. It was unfair because she was not naive and knew that a new husband awaited her. It was unfair because things kept changing and she kept being pushed to the side. Every day, the very walls and people of of Winterfell seemed to remind her what her only purpose was.

_My hand and dowry, that’s all I’m worth to them all._

It was a cruel world she had been born into. Every day it became clearer that the glorious future she had dreamed of as a child would never come. All that awaited her was a cold castle and some Lord who’d want children from her. 

_If not Domeric, then who? Which stranger will be brought before me next?_

The only ones who knew the answer to that were the Old Gods and they weren’t inclined to share their knowledge. 

Brandon waited for her in the Godswood, the morning before the first of the Lords began to pour through the gates. She walked in to find him kneeling there with his head bowed and her first instinct was to turn around and leave.

“Lya, wait, please.” He begged her quietly. “I’m sorry for what I said the other day, about you not knowing Domeric. There was a lot on my mind and my mouth moved before my thoughts could catch up.”

“Your mouth has a tendency to do that.” Lyanna found herself saying cooly. It happened often enough, between the two of them. This time, she found herself reluctant to forgive, not when everything inside still ached like a oozing wound.

In the pale morning light, her brother looked worn down and on edge. He would be going to his first battle soon and Lyanna envied him for being able to take up his sword and look for justice instead of always being taken care of by others. Despite this, he didn’t seem to look happy.

Was he scared? Unlikely; Brandon was all instincts and existing from one moment to the next. 

_But there must be something weighing on him._

“So does yours, lately.” He pointed out, unable to resist himself apparently. “Lya, I don’t want to fight. I can’t bear there being bad blood between the two of us when we part.”

 _When we part,_ he said and the inevitability of it caught up with her. Soon it would be just her and Benjen in the castle, while their father and brother rode to war.

 _I wish we didn’t need to part,_ the child in her wanted to say. _I wish I could go with you and avenge Domeric myself rather than just wait here and wonder if it’ll be you or Father who’ll be killed by them next._

“I don’t want bad blood either.” Was what she ended up saying and his young face lit up with visible relief.

“I’ll make sure the men who are responsible get brought to justice. And when I find the man who shot that arrow at Domeric, I’ll send you his head.”

 _What would I even do with a head,_ Lyanna wondered, but the thought seemed to appeal to the bloodthirsty angry creature that had grown inside her lately. Justice was never cruel; only just. _A life for a life, the punishment must fit the crime._

“I’ll hold you onto that.” 

A dead man’s head was nothing compared to the bones of a boy that now rested beneath the ground in the crypts of Dreadfort. It would never make up for the warmth of a hand she would never get to hold or lips she would never kiss.

On some days, she wondered if it was Domeric she missed or the idyllic future with him she had built in her mind and the thought made her sick with guilt so she did her best to avoid it.

_I knew him enough to love him. I knew him enough to miss him._

Less than an hour later, the gathering of banners officially began and her voluntary solitude was cut short. No matter how she felt, Lyanna would never let any of them spy the weakness in her. 

_I am a Princess of the North. I must have a spine of steel and fangs to match._

From then on, she spent every morning stuffed in her finest dress, with her hair braided intricately, greeting every Lord who entered the Great Hall. The heat and the continuous stress of courtesies made her sweat to the point she was almost glad that the maid had nearly drowned her in flovery Myrish perfumes.

Despite the short notice, Northern Lords seemed more than eager to arrive as soon as possible. Lyanna spotted the Umbers, the bronze keys of the Lockes’ banners and young Rickard Karstark came up to talk to her at some point before he got dragged off by his uncle. Then came others, Mormonts and Cerwyns and Forresters and more, until she lost count. 

_Surely they can’t all hope to fit in here,_ she thought but they did and the Great Hall lived up to its name, hosting more people than Lyanna had seen in her entire life so far. Not even her mother’s funeral had attracted such a crowd.

Amongst the guests gathered in the castle, the one she wished to avoid the most was Roose Bolton. The man scared her; his pale eyes were nothing like Domeric’s and she felt like he would look inside her and see all that made her unworthy. With the other Lords, all she needed to do was stand there and look pretty but she couldn’t shake the feeling like she owed something to Roose.

Grief maybe. She reckoned every father would want to see their child be grieved as they deserved, but she didn’t imagine the Lord of Dreadfort to be the kind of man who tolerated such weakness. It was a nice change of pace from the people of Winterfell who seemed to expect exactly that from her.

Unfortunately, her dilemma was cut short when it was her turn to thank him for coming.

“I see your Father wasn’t exaggerating when he wrote of your beauty.” Was what the Lord ended up saying, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear it over the noise in the hall. “My Domeric wrote well of you; ‘tis a shame we won’t see the union of our Houses.”

He didn’t seem to be particularly saddened. Lyanna likened his face to the air in the crypts; still and full of secrets, some of which should stay buried. They said his pallor came from the excessive leaching but if someone were to tell her Lord Roose was descended from the Others directly, she would have believed it. 

“I am sorry for your loss, my Lord.” She told him. “I am eager to see those pirates brought to justice by the brave men of the North.”

“An army of brave men will get that done.” Lord Roose agreed with his strange, quiet voice and his face was as inpregnatable as the walls of Dreadfort. “But even an army can’t undo what has occured when those brave men were not present. I have no thirst for revenge of such kind. Excuse me, Princess, for I have a matter to discuss with His Majesty.”

With that quizzical statement he turned and left. Lyanna stared after him in confusion, feeling chilled to the bone. 

_I wonder what he and Father will talk about._

She doubted she would ever find out. It was not likely that her father would think to tell her.

As it was, Lyanna was not invited to the meetings the King held in the Great Hall where he discussed his plans for dealing with the Ironborn. Her only solace was that neither was Benjen as apparently Father decreed that at his young age, he would have nothing of note to add or suggest.

“It’s unfair.” Benjen complained. “How am I supposed to learn anything? And he took Brandon, as if Brandon has any more experience than me.”

“He’s the heir.” She pointed out bitterly. “He’s supposed to be there.” 

It didn’t make her own exclusion sting any less and if she didn’t just come out of a fight with Brandon, she knew she would hold this against him. But after his apology, her brother was still written firmly in her good graces and she refused to risk them parting on anything other than good terms.

“I wish they didn’t need to do this.” Her younger brother muttered, kicking a rock. He had followed her to the godswood when she had gone to pray. Lyanna hadn’t seen much of him in the past weeks either. She had wanted to be alone and her brother had seemingly picked up on that and had the kindness to respect it.

Until he needed a sympathetic ear to vent his woes to at least.

“I don’t. The Ironborn need to pay.” The heart tree seemed to stare straight at her when she said that, its blood red sap burning into her eyes. _Brandon promised me a head, the head of the man who shot at Domeric._ She wondered if the Old Gods approved of that.

_They have to. How many innocent people died for the greed of the Iron Isles? How many suffered? They’re all my people too; Domeric was just one of many. And Father did nothing._

“I know, but I’m scared for Brandon and Father. I don’t want to be alone in Winterfell.” 

That was where Lyanna’s patience ended. 

“Don’t whine, they’re leaving me behind too. At least you’ll get to be in charge.”

He shriveled a bit beneath the harshness of her words but his pout remained fully fixed.

“As if. Maester Walys and Martyn will be running everything. I’m just supposed to sit there and nod my head and if anything goes wrong, I’ll be the one blamed.”

As much as she didn’t have any desire to listen to his problems at that moment, Lyanna could empathise with that specific frustration. The lack of control was a familiar feeling, as if everything existed just a breath away from her fingertips.

 _Allowed to dream and pretend but never to reach._ Somewhere in the depths of her memory, Domeric’s face gave her a tight lipped smile, pale in the winter snow. They had said their goodbyes then and Lyanna wondered how much less scared, less uncertain she’d have felt if she had known what she knew now.

_Maybe my hopes for him were all a sweet dream. But now I’ll never know._

“I just want things to go back to how they were, back when Ned was still here and Brandon wasn’t so busy.” Benjen went on, twisting his fingers in the fabric of his tunic. There was a sadness on his face that she recognised from the depths of her own heart.

“Little brother, things will never go back to how they were.” Her ill-fated betrothal had shown her that. She could not wish Domeric back to life, no more than she could have wished him away when he had first appeared in her life. “If you look back too much you’ll start sounding like an old man.”

“But don’t you miss it too?”

“Of course I do.” Lyanna admitted and it was all she would allow herself to say. Anything more would be just sentimentality.

 _I truly didn’t even think that things could turn this way,_ she thought, and wondered how many surprises of the kind would life have for her until she was truly a woman grown and matured, as old and ancient as Old Nan. 

Benjen looked at her somberly, then coyly.

“But you know, I have a real horse now. We’ll need to make use of that when it’s just the two of us. I’ll show you a fun spot Brandon has been keeping a secret.”

It was supposed to cheer her up; it did the opposite. Despite that, she forced her facial muscles to relax, for his sake.

_He means well. He just doesn’t understand. He’s expecting happy moments for us but he’d ignore the present right now, or my side of it._

Maester Walys was the one who eventually took pity on the younger two of his King’s children and called them to his study to explain to them how things would proceed from there on out.

“Martyn will be staying at the castle, along with three hundred men and Ser Benton, so you will be able to continue your lessons. Your father understands that you are still young and haven’t been taught how to run a keep in such a way, so most of the duties will fall to me and the castellan. However, the King and I both agree that this is a good opportunity for you to learn. Both of you.” He eyed Lyanna with that statement and she had to bite her tongue. 

She knew she would be inevitably running some household one day but with Domeric still fresh on her mind, she despised the reminder. The anger that had pestered her for weeks now threatened to resurface.

“The King has called in an army of ten thousand, mainly from castles closer to western coast. Once they reach the Stony Shore, they will be splitting up into two factions, the one led by Prince Brandon going north and the one led personally by His Majesty going south down to Cape Kraken.”

_So Father is sending Brandon to where there is less danger, I bet he’s overjoyed with that._

As if reading her mind, the old man went on. “Your brother was a bit… _difficult_ over that but it’ll be good for him to experience leading an army on his own. He will have some of more experienced Lords such as Arnolf Karstark and Hother Umber with him.”

Without doubt, in Brandon’s eyes that would be another insult but she could see that Benjen was relieved to hear that, his whole face lighting up.

“So they’re just going to drive off the raiders then?” Lyanna found herself a bit disappointed. Even secluded as she had been, she heard rumors passed between servants, whispers that the King intended to take the might of the North and unthrone Balon Greyjoy from his salty throne.

The maester gave her a long, careful look.

“Your father is cautious to risk the peace. King Quellon has been amicable, as much as the Ironborn ever are. It’s his sons who are causing trouble.” He sighed. “Advocating for peace is always wise, of course, but how long will it last? Forgive me, I am an old man, worrying over nothing.” He bowed quickly but had trouble rising, holding his back with one hand and wincing.

 _He disagrees with Father_ , Lyanna realised. That surprised her. Usually, the King and his maester were a unified force. 

It brought her some degree of vindication. _If Father acted earlier, Domeric might have been alive right now. It seems like he is stalling again and even maester Walys can see it. Why is he so afraid to act?_

“King Quellon won’t be around forever. Will Father move against the Isles and Rivers then?”

Maester Walys looked uncomfortable and even Benjen eyed her carefully, as if to warn her not to say anything brash.

“I do not know, Princess.” He admitted. “There have been… _proposals_ extended to him by Lord Tully but His Majesty is hesitant to take them up. I trust his wisdom on it.”

That was as much as he allowed himself to say and he left Lyanna with more questions than answers. _Something to ponder on later._

“When will they be leaving?” Benjen cut in, seemingly unconcerned with uncovering what their father was up to.

“A week’s time, I believe. There is much to be done before they leave.” He sighed. “So much to be done.”

Lyanna didn’t care for the old man’s woes. It was on him to perform his duties and he certainly wouldn’t be helping her with her own but apparently, her brother was feeling more generous.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” He offered and she hated him for using the plural when the maester’s eyes lit up like beacons. Even in her current temper, she couldn’t bring herself to crush his hopes like that.

“Your Grace is too kind.” He bowed again and she winced when she heard his spine crack. 

The tasks he gave them were thankfully short and simple. A couple letters and parchments to make copies of and a few books to return to the library. More than anything, Lyanna felt like he needed help keeping his chamber organised. 

Whether the cause was the current disarray in the castle or if something else was pestering the maester, but the clutter that awaited them was far beyond what she’d ever seen the man produce. Books laid strewn open on the table and piled on the floor next to it. The cupboards were open, displaying a mess of brews and ingredients and piles of parchment could be found all over the room.

“I sincerely apologise for the mess.” He looked properly embarrassed. “I did not wish to burden His Majesty the King any further in these hard times but my back has been causing me trouble lately. It’s hard to bend over and pick up things and I can’t afford to have my wits addled by the milk of poppy.”

“It’s no issue.” Benjen assured. “You’ve been very kind by taking the time to explain everything to us even though time is something you’re short of. It’s the least we can do.”

Having the better handwriting, Lyanna was the one set in charge of copying while brother picked up books the maester pointed him to and raced to the library tower. Once she got into it, she began to appreciate the simplicity of the task. It kept her hands busy and her mind occupied in the present. 

She was just folding away another sheet of parchment when something caught her eye. Nearly buried in the mess, there was a dark outline of an object.

“What’s this?” Lyanna touched the thing carefully, letting it unfold. “A whip?” 

It certainly seemed to be one, but unlike any she’s ever seen. Cattle herders used something similar but shorter; and the material was unfamiliar and lighter than she would have imagined based on the length. What caught attention the most was the single ruby glittering on the end of the handle, the size of a coin and polished into perfection.

“A dragon whip, I believe. It arrived here with Rhaegar of Valyria and I hoped to study it. It’s certainly a Valyrian invention; you won’t find this kind of craftsmanship elsewhere. I believe that the core must be reinforced with Valyrian steel if it’s to be used on dragons. That is the only explanation, though there are some even in the Citadel who would be foolish enough to call it sorcery. The Lord has been very tight lipped about it when I requested his help though.” Maester Walys shook his head in visible disappointment. “Dragonlords are oft like that. They guard their techniques jealously even when there is nothing left to protect but dust and ashes. Still, I have made some notes on it that I hope to send to the Citadel.”

True to his word, he had a parchment complete with a sketch. Lyanna hoped he didn’t insist on her copying _that_.

She weighted the whip in contemplation, trying to imagine what it looked like in use. It didn’t look like much at first glance, with the exception of the precious stone but they said a dragon’s scales were harder than steel.

“Do you still need it?” She asked, fascinated.

The maester frowned.

“It’s no tool for a Princess to have.” 

_It’s not for an old man to have either,_ she thought bitterly. _It has an owner and I doubt he gave you his permission._

“It’s pretty.” The ruby glittered as if it held back a sea of flames behind its glassy exterior. _Blood and dragonfire,_ she remembered. _Some might dare call it sorcery._ “I might ask Father to give it to me.”

That worked better than any stubbornness might have. As much as she resented it, her father’s name was still the most effective weapon to resort to when it came to the maester and Lyanna was not prideful enough to put her spite above her goals.

“You need not bother the King.” He sighed. “I have observed all I could from it I suppose… but if by chance, you speak to Lord Rhaegar, you could-”

“-I’ll ask him about it.” She jumped in absentmindedly. She doubted he’d tell her but she didn’t care; whether generations of men at the Citadel would get to learn about the tools Valyrians used to tame their beasts was not her concern. Like Walys said, Valyria was dust and ash now; she was fine letting some secrets lie in the place they were born.

The whip, however, attracted her in the simple way swords and daggers did. 

_I’ll give it back, eventually,_ she promised herself. _It doesn’t belong to me any more than it does to maester Walys._

It had been a while since she had last seen Rhaegar anywhere in any case. As it turned out, without her seeking him out on purpose, their paths didn’t cross that often. Maester Walys had taken to using him as help - whenever he could find him skulking around the castle at least. More often than not, it seemed the man was simply nowhere to be found and Lyanna’s maids would whisper nervously of sorcery and dark magic.

_The sorcery and dark magic of moping and preferring high places maybe._

Lyanna had found it funny then, but now she could understand the compulsion. The human heart could be ridiculous in its grief and its quest to quell an ache that nothing seemed to reach. More than that, solitude felt best when you didn’t need to dread being intruded upon.

Once she and Benjen were done, Lyanna returned to her chambers. He accompanied her to the doorway, boring into her with his large, childlike eyes.

“Lya, we’ll stay together right? When Bran and Father leave?”

“We’ll be in the same castle. You’re the man, can’t you take care of yourself?” It bothered her, though she could not verbalise why. 

_Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?_ It seemed such a small request but somehow so hard to fulfill. Even if she avoided everyone and nobody breathed a word about Domeric, the stares remained, as did the expectations and the pity. _Grieve right,_ they seemed to demand. _Weep and be coddled like a helpless doll, or grow up and behave._

No matter how she tried, Lyanna could do neither.

_Maybe I should give up on the Godswood and start climbing on rooftops too._

The way Benjen looked at her gave birth to a whole swarm of unwelcome emotions and she shut the door with more force than necessary. For a couple moments, she stayed there, breathing heavily as she listened to his hesitant footsteps fade into the distance.

If her heart had been a ribbon, that would have been a tug that’d cause it to unwrap and spill its contents into the broad daylight, all the ugly and the unwelcome. But Lyanna had to have a spine of steel, she reminded herself, and her heart would not be so failble. 

Instead, in the privacy of her room, she found herself admiring the whip again, uncoiling it and letting the full length of it drop on the floor. It was too long to safely swing inside, nor did she think it would be a smart idea to do that without thinking it through. Keeping her mind occupied, she considered its weight.

It was easy to pretend that she was a world away, far from everything that upset her. Not the Princess of Winterfell but someone else; an explorer maybe, or a sellsword crossing the Dothraki sea.

_What does it matter. I can pretend all I want but nothing will change. I’m still me, Domeric is still dead._

Her eyes stung and she blinked furiously, wiping them with the back of her hand, letting the weapon drop to the floor with a dull thud. 

_I’m a Princess of the North,_ she thought again and again. _A Stark of Winterfell. I won’t cry like a little girl._

The determination held on for a bit but dissolved like a snowflake in the sun when she moved to place the whip in her drawer and her eyes caught sight of what she had been trying to ignore. There, inconspicuously and almost forgotten, awaited all the letters she had received from Domeric. Lyanna had stored them carefully, placing them with her most precious items; a locket with a lock of her mother’s hair, a bracelet from her maternal grandfather and the little tiara that had been made for her when she was barely more than a babe and first presented to the vassals.

It felt like a punch to the chest; how could it have slipped her mind?

Her body slammed the drawer closed on instinct and she stumbled backwards, her heels hitting the wooden bed frame.

_I can’t do this to myself._

But still, she found herself going over every letter again, unable to resist the temptation. It was as if once she laid her eyes on them, the image was burned into her eyelids and no matter how she tried, she couldn’t gather enough willpower to resist its pull. 

_Dear Princess,_ he had written in the oldest ones, all stiff and formal. Lyanna remembered being put off by that.

 _Dear Lyanna,_ was what he had addressed her as in the very last one after she kept insisting. It was that letter she found herself rereading over and over, looking for some hint she could have caught even back then, some warning of the way fate would betray them. There was none; instead, he described Lord Flint’s castle and a run-in one of his companions had with the Lord’s dog upon entering. It seemed so far away now, the day when she had first read that and laughed.

_I long for the day I’ll be able to see you. It’s drawing closer each day now. I don’t doubt you’ll want a rematch and I would love to go riding with you again._

It had been a sweet dream, the future they had planned. Half-heartedly, she wondered if he had ever received her reply.

_How did everything fall apart so quickly? What am I supposed to do now? My future is up in the air again and I doubt I’ll get this lucky twice. Am I bad for worrying about that? He will never get to have a future and I’m worrying about mine. Am I bad?_

She didn’t dare voice the question aloud, not even when she snuck out to pray that next morning, even before the sun rose. There was no solace to be found in sleep and with so many people visiting, she couldn’t relax unless she knew for sure that nobody would be coming to see her in those moments of weakness.

The heart tree was the only company she needed; the only she trusted. In her time of need, it seemed that the Old Gods were the only ones willing to listen. 

“I need to resolve this.” She confessed to them and the forest around her swallowed her words in silence. “I don’t want to feel like this forever. Father lost Mother and he moved on, I should be able to as well.”

She had already dealt with death before, when Queen Lyarra had died, but that had felt different. She had been still a child then; things were different for children. And she hadn’t been alone, hadn’t been left to rebuild her heart and leash her fears while everyone around her went on.

“Please help me. Let me be able to take joy in being with my family again. Bring my father and Brandon back to me, safe and healthy. Let them suffer no pain and let this struggle come to an end.”

She had been praying before but she had always done it in silence. Now, it felt as if once she had started talking, she couldn’t stop, whispering wish after wish into the cold morning air until her woolen dress was soaked from the snow and her fingers went numb with cold. Morning light began to streak through the leaves and somewhere, the castle began to wake.

All along, gusts of wind drew their song through the branches of the trees around her, the only reply to her worries. It comforted her more than words ever could; something about the ancient tree and the face carved in it made her feel seen and heard. She knew, with certainty, that there was a listening ear on the other end.

With the sun rising, it was only a matter of time before she was disturbed but when the sound of footsteps on the snow caught her attention, Rhaegar was not the face she had expected to see.

It was an unexpected sight, but not an entirely unwelcome one. His presence was unobtrusive enough that it barely felt more than a ripple on the surface of her mind. 

“Can I help you?”

He paused before the lake, staying at a distance from her and the heart tree. He had refused to enter the Godswood before, Lyanna remembered, citing something about it being a sacred place. She wondered what changed to bring him there then.

“Princess. Should I leave?”

Lyanna rubbed her hands together, suddenly aware of the cold. _I shouldn’t have stayed here this long._

“No need. I should be heading back soon anyway.” Despite that, she made no move to leave. “Are you going to just stand there? You should take a closer look at the heart tree if you’re here already.” 

“I can see it fine from there.” He insisted, seemingly not finding the place nearly as peaceful as she did. Even after all that time, he didn’t fit amids the snow and winter any more than he had on the day she found him. Familiar with this, Lyanna said nothing and waited and predictably, he did end up coming nearer. 

“I don’t think it’s right for me to be here. This place is for your people to find peace in, not for me to intrude on it.”

 _And yet you’re here,_ she thought. 

“It’s a place for people to feel listened to. The Old Gods might be present here but they’re just listening to what is offered; they don’t give and they don’t take. You change nothing by just being here.”

Moments of silence passed, filled only with the whispering of the leaves. Lyanna felt weary and worn out but for once, words were easily found and she felt little qualms about speaking them. Somehow, she didn’t think Rhaegar had any preconceived notions about her that she needed to prove or disprove - he was essentially a stranger in her home, with no sway in anything that was going down, but not a child like Benjen was.

Nor did she think he would care for her tragedy, when his own seemed to hang around him like a translucent dark veil with every breath.

_I long for the day I’ll be able to see you._

“Do you feel angry?” She asked, not specifying about what. Surely, even he had heard about what had happened or else she thought he would not be there. 

If he was offended, he did not show it.

“Does it matter? If you want to know whether you should be, nobody can give you that answer.”

Lyanna huffed, annoyed.

“Bold words, but I feel a lot of people would disagree. Everyone has answers to give me, even if they haven’t had the courage to suggest them yet.” _And would that they never do._ “My brother told me I barely knew my betrothed, as if he was the one who gets to judge if I get to miss him or not. My father didn’t say as much but I know he’s thinking he can indulge me because I happen to be a girl. He doesn’t think I have anything to miss either and I hate the fact he’ll still let me, for the entirely wrong reasons. It makes me furious. They just - they don’t get it. It’s like they can’t truly see me as a person, beneath the roles I was given when I was born. They just already decided who I was and who I would be.”

She took a breath, forcibly cutting herself off before she went off on a longer spiel on that topic and eyed him suspiciously, fearful that she had said too much even so. Somehow, either due to his timing or maybe because the relationship she had built with him was constructed from loss, he had seemed like the perfect person to discuss this with, but the worry that she had made an irreparable mistake remained.

“Do you think that’s stupid?”

Rhaegar seemed to ponder on it for long enough that it made her anxious and she was nearly about to say something when he answered.

“It’s not my place to judge one way or another, but you know your feelings better than anyone else. People think and feel more than they give away and those around you will only see those bits and pieces and then make their own conclusions. You would not grieve if there was nothing to miss.”

It was exactly what she had wanted to believe herself, said in words she could not find. 

“I’m not really mad at them. I’m just mad.” She felt as if she had to elaborate on that. “I think I’ve spent more time being mad than actually mourning. And I’ve certainly spent a lot more time worrying about what the next person Father picks for me will be like, I fear that might be somewhat selfish. I got some choice with Domeric but the next time I might not. And then I’m mad about that too and mad at myself for not focusing on Domeric.”

It was an endless cycle, one she could not see the end of, other than learning how to live with it. _That’s unfair. Why should I need to live with it?_

“It would be stupid not to worry about that, I think. The dead are dead, there is not much to think about there, other than what might have been. They have no future, but you still do.” He said that as if it was a torment to admit. “I think your brother misses you though.”

“Ah.” Lyanna winced. “Right. Benjen. He hasn’t been a lot of help though.”

Rhaegar shook his head. “With all due respect, the Prince might have been more helpful if you told him what you just told me.”

Her first thought was repulsion. She could not imagine admitting all that to her younger brother of all people; she had an image to uphold. Despite that, she could not deny the logic; it would be hypocritical to resent not receiving help if she never asked for it.

“You might be onto something.” She relented. “I... will take it into consideration. Did you come here to give me advice?”

“I didn’t. You asked.” He pointed out, shivering. Unlike her, he did not forget about the cold.

 _Well, what are you out here for then,_ she wanted to ask but she decided that the question was stupid. Whether it was friendship, duty or the pressure of debt that led him there, she couldn’t deny she had been quick to make use of the opportunity.

“I suppose I did ask.” Lyanna stood up, shaking the snow from her hood. There was much she had to think about and all her worries were no less threatening than they had been moments before. Despite that, being listened to seemed to have cleared out some of her anger, leaving only sadness and bitterness behind, along with a burning new determination to leave this tragedy behind her. “Thank you.”

At a different time, she would have offered a distraction; an explanation about the history of the heart tree maybe. But as it was, Lyanna felt too worn out for that, the road before her too long so she opted for a more closed off approach.

_I'm making one step. A hundred still await me._

“My father’s Lords might start coming here soon now that the sun has risen. Will you walk with me to the castle?” _A hot bath and a change of clothes,_ she decided, _will be a start. I’ll feel better then._

“Unless you want to stay.” She added belatedly and somewhat unnecessarily because Rhaegar was clearly ready to get out of there and to somewhere warm, nearly halfway before she caught up.

“Your tree was looking at me weird.” He told her later. “I don’t think I should be there. There’s magic in that place.”

If there was any magic, it had to be the sorcery of the Children of the Forest and the First Men, Lyanna supposed. There was a serenity to the Goodswood that made it feel like home.

She liked the idea. The next morning, she took Domeric’s letters and buried them besides the heart tree.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you properly.” She told the patch of fresh dirt. “I promise I won’t forget about you. The people responsible will pay. But I’ll keep you here from now on. There’s so much going on out there, I’ll go mad if I don’t.” She patted the ground, feeling silly but there was nobody but the Old Gods to judge her.

_I long for the day I’ll be able to see you._

“One day, I’ll see you again.” She promised, echoing his words to her. “But not that soon, I hope.”

She saw Brandon and her father off with a wave and a kiss on the cheek and held Benjen's hand on the way back to the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was such a pain and honestly I might come back and edit it at some point. There were a lot of plot points to cover and it's hard for me to finish it without some kind of conclusion, but I specifically wanted to avoid that here because Lyanna still has stuff to figure out and I want to drive in she's doing it herself. She has a kind of a coming-of-age arc I suppose.
> 
> Also the godswood scene was initially planned to be from Rhaegar's POV (his feelings about Walys would have been hilarious to write so RIP that. like, imagine you were in a coma and your doc took your things and you wake up and wonder where they went and then he has the audacity to ask you to describe how it all works bc he wants to write a thesis on it and you cant say no bc you have medical bills the size of the Pacific and 0 money. I wouldn't be a fan personally. So if Walys' room being a mess and Rhaegar being supposed to be helping him feels like a contradiction, no it's not, he knows fully well why that room is messy) but it didn't fit, either I'd have to waste a whole chapter on Lyanna grieving without achieving any breakthroughs and split it in two or I'd have to show her mourning through someone else's thoughts and I didn't like either option, because her feelings are too over the place to properly come across without a POV. Like, it's about Domeric but is it really about Domeric as a person or just what he meant for her?
> 
> On another note, my exams will be starting soon so it might take me a bit to get to the next chapter, especially since it should be Rhaella next and tbh, her plotline is the one I have noted down the most vaguelly.


	11. Rhaella II

The meetings started at dawn and would last at least until the sunset. Rhaella’s body protested its discomfort ever more loudly as not even subtly shifting in her seat was helping quell the aches at this point. 

“-It is not just a right, but the duty of the First Daughter to take her Mother’s place. Brothers, sisters, we must not forget where we came from and the blood that gave us life; the Old Blood, Dragon’s Blood. Valyria lives as long as we continue its will and all who seek to use this moment of weakness to their advantage must be punished!”

The speech was met with mixed approval; some of the gathered nobles rose with a joined cheer while the others were more reserved, remaining seated and clapping with cold politeness. Marqueno Tagaros bowed and returned to his seat, his colourful robes pluming behind him as he walked down the podium.

_ Gold,  _ Rhaella couldn’t help notice.  _ And black. He’s playing to win over the Tigers, even if it means losing the support of the Elephants.  _

A foolish plan, but a bold one. The Old Blood were as proud as they were powerful and more than that, they spent their lives in the creak between the riches of Valyrian nobility and living under the mercy of the dragonlords who soared even above them. 

But the dragons were gone and the scorned wanted their place at the top now. Even without dragons, the blood of Valyria ran strong in them; sorcery and a fleet of hundreds of ships could still do plenty to reclaim the former territories. The other Free Cities knew that as well and they knew that Volantis would retaliate in some fashion after they slaughtered the remaining dragonlords. It seemed like a universal agreement that the risk was worth the freedom.

She placed her hand on her stomach gingerly, allowing it to rest there. The babe seemed as displeased by the constant speeches and bickering as she was but Rhaella relished in each sign of liveliness, no matter how unpleasant it felt to her own body.

The next speaker was already hurrying up the stadium, a grey-bearded man in a merchant’s clothes. Old Blood, he was, for he would not be there otherwise but there was not much of Valyria in his appearance and Rhaella heard more than one hushed comment on the fact.

From the sight alone, she could tell he would be an advocate for trade rather than war. The Elephant party tended to consist mainly of merchants and moneylenders; the people who would benefit from trade and suffer the most loss from war.

“If I may, your words were bold brother but pray tell, what would you back them up with?” 

“ _ He insults us! _ ” A woman in the audience called and a wave of displeasure rippled across the crowd.  _ Gods, don’t let them argue about this lest we are to stay here until the next sunrise. _

“Volantis boasts thousands of swords and the largest fleet in the known world. I assure you, brother, my suggestions are well-backed.” Marqueno Tagaros spoke with a fiery confidence. “The fortune is won by the bold. Pray tell, what would  _ you _ have us do instead?”

“Yes, thousands of swords and yet, thirty thousand swords were lost to us with Emperor Gaevan, along with his dragon. Let me remind you it was not steel and muscle that forged the Empire but dragonfire from on high. Our enemies to the East and to the West all know this. The Dothraki are growing unruly as well; should we reclaim the other Cities of the Freehold, how should we hope to defend them from inside and the outside? I say, let them deal with that and focus on ensuring the First Daughter continues to prosper. The old days are dead - let them die.”

It was hopeless. Many of the Tigers had vanished with Gaevan Belaerys amidst the smoking ruins of Valyria but enough still remained, scared and fierce and hungry for blood. Bloodshed and power were the way of the dragons and the merchant’s suggestion spoke firmly against the tradition.

There were a precious few that still hoped their Emperor would return and Rhaella worried that she partly owed her continued survival to them. The people of Volantis did not want for an Empress and she didn’t need to be told of it to know that the two triarchs would be eager to get rid of her the moment the threat of dragonfire no longer loomed above them. 

Though none had dared strip her of her title yet, Rhaella had been removed from all real power early on, not that she had access to much to begin with. The guards standing behind her might as well have been jailers; they would bring her instructions that she had to obey and report her every move to their masters.

With Viserys as their hostage, obedience was her only choice.

Once the meetings were done, they’d escort her back to her quarters where slaves awaited her with a warm bath and refreshments. The babe seemed to like the heat and Rhaella relaxed in the bathtub, soaking her pale hair. The water smelled vaguely of honey and roses this time - doubtlessly, a new shipment of scented oils had arrived that evening.

A young slave woman with golden hair brought her a plate loaded with fruits. Dark purple grapes, juicy blood oranges and even the strange yellow-skinned fruit from Southoryos were tempting her and she eagerly reached for it, still half-submerged in the water. The strangest foods had always appealed to her when she was carrying a child; she remembered keenly that even Aerys had been perplexed by the amount of dried horse meat she consumed while she was pregnant with Viserys. 

_ This one is less hungry, at least.  _

While she ate, she found her thoughts return to new developments. It was clearer with every day that the Tigers would prevail; already, plans were being drawn to send the Volantene fleet to conquer Lys and Myr. Rhaella was not privy to the matters of war, nor did it concern her.

_ Let them scatter their swords and die on foreign shores if they want to. _

The people of Volantis lost all of her concern the moment when they took her son from her. The concern for Viserys was what kept her up at night even more than the dragon dreams did. It was on Gaevan’s orders that her boy had been taken away but even now, none would tell her where.

“ _ He will be taken care of, I assure you. _ ” Her husband had promised but his words had been hollowed by his callous demeanour. “ _ The family I have chosen will teach him obedience and courage. _ ”

She saw through that. It was not Viserys’ obedience that was being ensured but her own. It filled her with anger the likes she hadn’t felt in ages. 

_ He’s mine to raise. My boy, my gift from Gods. Aerys was cruel but at least I was a mother then - now they’ll take even that from me. Who am I then, no one’s wife, no one’s mother? Without my dragon and my riches? What do I have but my children? _

She had little doubt that a similar fate would befall the child she was carrying now. The babe had grown too quickly to fool anyone, an accusation which was used to justify removing her from power, but even so, the Old Blood would not be able to resist the temptation of raising a dragonlord’s seed. It was only the matter of who got to the newborn first.

Currently, triarch Doniphos was the one providing for her but lately, as the disagreements continued and the divide between the parties widened, he had began to side with the Elephants. He hadn’t declared himself publicly yet but it was only a matter of time. Once he made his move, things could take a turn for the worse; she dreaded the thought of being dragged down along with him.

_ Dragons. That’s what they want, all of them. _

Tracing her belly lightly with the pads of her fingers, Rhaella wished she could hold the babe in her hands and give it comfort. It was a restless one, as if it was aware it would be born into the bloodshed in the wake of the Doom.

A thousand plans had been drawn in her mind, a thousand ways to flee and all of them were discarded shortly afterwards. 

“I am sorry, little one. Your mother cannot leave.” Not while Viserys remains a hostage. Rhaella knew with as much certainty as one could that should she leave her son behind, the guilt would drag her into the grave. Rhaegar’s departure was already difficult enough but at least in his case, she felt secure in knowing that forcing him to leave was the only thing she could have done for him.

_ He’ll be fine on his own. He always has been.  _

She could only pray that whoever Viserys had ended up with was treating him well. That he was being taken care of, given access to full meals and comfort. His absence was an open wound; while Rhaegar had always come and gone, fickle and independent in his own way, Viserys had been a constant by her side from the moment he had come into the world.

_ We’ll have to endure, all of us, until things improve. One day, there’ll be an opportunity and we’ll take it. _

And endure she did. Day after day, sitting through meetings while her feet swelled uncomfortably and the tensions grew. Another moon had passed before the citizens of Volantis were finally ready to accept the death of Gaevan Belaerys, the Emperor of Valyria and the thirty thousand who had left with him.

The festivities were grande; hundreds of elephants were lead through the streets, clothed in gold with jugglers, gymnasts and dancers leading the way. Every family of some significance had appeared on a palanquin carried by slaves in golden collars and the women benevolently scattered coins amongst the gathered crowd every now and then.

There was more cheer than grief to be found, Rhaella couldn’t help but notice and it was an observation she found incredibly ironic. Gaevan had spent most of his life in Volantis but already, his presence meant nothing more than a footnote in the minds of his people.

Triarch Doniphos had bestowed her with a written speech that morning.

“The Council had prepared this for you. Our Emperor deserves a good sendoff.” 

_ The Council,  _ Rhaella skimmed through the page and bit her lip.  _ The Elephant Council. They’re planning to use me to sway the people on their side. _

It would put her at a significant risk to take either side but the choice was not hers. Viserys’ wellbeing was a noose around her neck and though it chaffed her raw and her hands were unbound, she couldn't take it off.

Dressed in her husband’s colours, she had been escorted onto a palanquin of her own and carried to a podium. Her hair had been drawn from her face with a heavy ornamental Valyrian headpiece that made her neck ache with its weight and even dressed in the lightest of silk, she was sweating from the heat.

As she sat there, she tried to catch a sight of Viserys in the crowd but it was to no avail; he hadn’t been brought to the celebration. Her chest felt a little heavier for it.

_ What was I expecting? Things have never been easy for me. _

“Dear people of Volantis, the First Daughter’s children and those who are here today by the will of the Gods. I speak to you as a widow of a great man - a man we shall remember. Let it be that our children never forget the story of Zherion the Sunstealer and his last rider. Let us grieve their loss and celebrate their lives and the time our Emperor shared with us.” She paused, heart beating like a hatchling’s wings. Every eye was on her now. 

_ Every eye, and every blade. _

“Let us recall today his legacy and will. In his heart of hearts, my husband wanted nothing more than to see Volantis prosper. This is a time of turmoil and bloodshed. It is not the legacy the Emperor wished to leave behind but it is the strife we are facing nonetheless. In his name, I urge every child of Volantis to be careful, to watch over their life and the lives of their loved ones as the Emperor no longer can. Let us mourn those who are gone and protect those who are left. Every drop of Valyrian blood spilled is a tragedy.”

_ Damn you,  _ Rhaella thought, licking her lips and trying to calm her trembling hands.  _ Damn you all. Damn the Emperor and the Tigers and the Elephants. Damn them all. _

“This is my message to you, as the Emperor’s widow. From today on, I will be renouncing my position, unworthy as I am of continuing what he has begun. The people of Volantis will, as they have always done, elect their own triarchs. My only wish is that you keep my husband's memory with you.”

The people cheered, some taking off their headwear and throwing it into the air. Hundreds, thousands of them had listened to the message she had been forced to pass and welcomed it. Barely daring a glance, she noticed that only few of the Old Blood were joining the reception.

_ Stepping down in the same speech should make me less dangerous to them.  _ Still, a concern remained and she traced the outline of her belly nervously.

Later that night, a celebration was held at the former Dragon Triarch’s residence. The feast was, unlike the meetings she had attended so far, open to anyone of wealth and not just those who could prove a long-running Valyrian lineage.

Rhaella’s head was aching and despite her hunger she didn’t dare touch the food that was being offered. In the back of her head, she could almost hear Aerys voicing his approval.

_ It’s different,  _ she told herself.  _ I have a reason for concern.  _ So many people were spilling across the room she could no longer keep track. Slavers and merchants and moneylenders; a group of young women with silver-gold hair took over the dancefloor, forming a circle with their intertwined hands. The music was loud and yet still nearly drowned out by the hundreds of voices, each carrying out their own conversation. 

Every now and then, someone would approach her and she replied politely all the while wishing they’d go away. The guards at her back stood like a warning presence that she is not to leave yet, not until the night ends. Every now and then, the baby would shift or kick, making her stifle a wince.

_ You’ll endure.  _ She told herself, stubbornly.  _ You are the blood of the dragon. They will not see you break. None will ever witness that. _

It was then that  _ he  _ approached her. 

She’d heard of him before, for even though he was not Old Blood or even a true resident of Volantis, Varys the Spider was well known amongst the nobility. None knew where he came from or who he truly was but it didn’t matter to them as he was the master of his trade. Marqueno Targaros had boasted more than once that the eunuch was working on his behalf these days, Rhaella remembered, wary of his presence.

“Can I help you, my Lord?” She straightened up in her chair, folding her hands in front of her stomach protectively. 

The Spider gave her a gentle smile that looked frightfully convincing; had she not known who he was, she might have been fooled by it. He was not an intimidating man; bald and fat and perfumed but despite that she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the most dangerous person in the room.

_ What are you playing at? What is it that you want from me? _

“I am no Lord, Empress.”

“And I no longer hold that position. Please, what should I call you?”

“My name would do fine.” He didn’t correct himself on her title. “It was a wonderful speech you had today. The Emperor’s memory was honoured as grandly as he deserved.”

“You are far too kind. In truth, it was hardly my own work. I don’t have much talent with words.”

One of the guards behind her shifted and she feared she might have said too much.  _ Please tell your masters I am not your enemy,  _ she begged the man in front of her. 

Varys smiled again and she felt like a mouse standing in front of a looming snake.

“No, that was always your son, wasn’t it? The one with the harp. But the art of public speaking is in the delivery, some might say so I’d still insist that you did well.”

Whatever she had been expecting wasn’t that.

“I was not aware you were familiar with Rhaegar.”

“Not personally, unfortunately, but a friend of mine had the opportunity to meet him a couple years back. He had been looking for a specific book; Daenys’ journal if I remember correctly. One can’t help but wonder, now that the Doom had fallen upon the Empire.”

_ Of course,  _ Rhaella thought.  _ Of course a man as smart as he is would ask about Rhaegar. Even a single dragon left unaccounted for could spell trouble, especially since they’re keeping his family hostage. _

“He used to dream of it but he was far from the first member of our family to have those dreams and each time, nothing happened.” Truthfully, Rhaella had been frightened. After the tragedy, Aerys began to dream of terrible, unspeakable things. It was as if every night, the darkness of the world began to creep into his mind and each morning found him a little bit more unstable, a little more inclined to violence. The first time Rhaegar had crept into her bedroom he was a little thing and she was a young girl still. His dreams of fire and death had scared her as much as they had scared him.

She had comforted him that time and told him not to speak of it again. He’d seek her out a couple more times as children were wont to do and then never again. There was not much time for tears and comfort in his life and all Rhaella could do as his mother was prepare him for it.

It didn’t surprise her to hear that he had never quite let go of his dreams, though it pained her that he had learned to keep them private. How much sorrow would they all have been spared if he had come to her with his worries about Aerys and the offer given by his peers?

_ He has so many secrets and I taught him that. I taught him to hold his tongue and then I was surprised when I looked at his face and couldn’t tell what he was thinking. _

She remembered the last time she had seen him, standing on that balcony. The memory was unpleasant so she pushed it away, focusing on the matters at hand.

“And yet, by the turn of fate, it was your family who happened to survive the Doom anyway. I’m sorry if I brought up an unpleasant topic; I imagine you don’t know where your son is currently.”

_ There it is. _

“I don’t.” She confirmed. “Last I saw him was a year before the Doom. You’ve presumably heard about what happened so you can understand that we didn’t part in the best circumstances.”

The Spider didn’t appear surprised or disappointed. If anything, she had a feeling her answer had pleased him.

“If one wished to hide from the dragonlords they would have to hide far, indeed. If I may be of help, my friend happens to be in the city for the celebration. Lord Rhaegar never ended up taking that journal, though he paid for it heftily. Mayhaps, if you were to take a look, it might give you some hints.”

_ It’s better for Rhaegar to stay hidden,  _ her reason said but a much larger and more desperate part of her couldn’t help but play directly into the Spider’s web.  _ If he truly never stopped worrying about the Doom, Daenys’ journal might give some indication on where he’d go. _

Whatever showed on her face must have pleased Varys for he excused himself with a bow.

“I apologise again for bringing up such matters on a night like this but I believed this might be my only chance of speaking with you. Every mother, I imagine, would feel concern for her children and I would loathe to have the means to soothe your fears and do nothing.”

“Thank you for your consideration. I must admit you’ve piqued my interest. May I have your friend’s name and residence?”

The man giggled softly, covering his mouth with his long, heavy sleeve.

“If you are interested, I will forward the information to you, in my own fashion. But not here. The people of the Old Freehold still remember Aerys Targaryen, and not fondly. The knowledge of his son loose in the world might be… _ concerning _ to them.”

Those words proved more than true when she later proposed the idea to her host. Triarch Doniphos had left the celebration looking aggrieved and nervous but she supposed that was to be expected, after he finally made his move and declared himself for the Elephant party. His nervousness was to her benefit because he was quick to agree.

Whether he felt like it would be beneficial to get a dragonlord on his side or if he simply worried that if he denied her this request, it would backfire on him in the future, Rhaella didn’t know and she didn’t care. A thin thread of hope had appeared before her and she clung to it with all her might.

The Spider’s friend turned out to be a Pentoshi cheesemonger named Illyrio Mopatis who had fled the city of his birth in the wake of the violence that followed the fall of Valyria. He was a heavy man with a forked yellow beard made out of coarse hair and his eyes were shrewd.

He greeted her warmly as if they were old friends and apologised for the humbleness of his estate. An apology which, to Rhaella, was overly modest as there was a lot to be said about his mansion but nothing about it was humble. Lush gardens, marble statues with eyes of precious stones, it felt like the only thing that the building did not have was a location beyond the Black Walls.

Daenys’ journal was a small and worn thing, bound in leather that had seen better days. Rhaella had been advised to handle it carefully and she did, holding it hesitantly as if it might fall apart with her touch.

“I shall leave you to it.” Her host told her, stroking his beard with quirked lips “If you need for anything, the servants have been ordered to listen to your requests.”

With that, Rhaella was free to focus on the book. The reading was difficult; Daenys probably hadn’t intended it to be read by anyone. The scribbles seemed more like reminders to herself, loose details unconnected to any larger narrative. She wrote about her days sometimes; about her father and her brother. Their family’s exile had only been mentioned once.

_ Father said West is where dragons go to die. He is hesitant to believe me still but he admitted he can see Balerion’s behaviour with his own eyes. He grows more restless each day and I fear. _

The sentence ended there and whatever fears Daenys Targaryen had had been left out from even her private journal. 

_ The Prince that was Promised will bring the dawn. Born in salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. Black and red will be his colours and the Doom of Man his nemesis. He will _

_ A tower in the east. A castle amidst the white and flowers growing on its walls. Red doors. She does not burn. The Breaker of Chains. _

Rhaella winced as the baby kicked again. She was well familiar with the prophecy itself but the words afterwards made little sense. Daenys had stopped writing in sentences at that point so it was anyone’s guess what it meant. 

None of it offered much insight as to where Rhaegar would have gone.

_ West is where dragons go to die. _

Would he have shared that belief? Dragonstone was in the west, as far west as one could go without leaving Valyria and Rhaella remembered he had spoken of visiting when he had been a child. But Rhaegar had spoken of many things when he had been young and then not much at all when he grew old enough to know better. 

_ Dreams are stronger at Dragonstone. A shroud hangs above the land. A pale white egg hatches and out came death. Blue eyes. A King rests in the snow. Only one enemy, with thousands of limbs.  _

By the time Rhaella finally gave up, the sun was setting. The magister was waiting for her sitting on a cushion in the guest hall and sipping on something with a strong scent that made her stomach twist.

“Have you found anything, my Lady?” 

Rhaella walked slowly, cursing her swollen ankles and at the same time thanking the gods that the people in Volantis did not walk much.

_ If I had to be on my feet during the day, I’d have just rolled over and died. _

“Nothing concrete, I believe. I hate to ask for another favour, but your friend, the Spider, could he be hired? I would like for him to spin his web in the Sunset Kingdoms.” If Tyraxes had been seen in Westeros, the news would have doubtlessly spread by now as the trade between the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities was lively. A dragon where there should be none would have been reported.

But Rhaegar alone, without Tyraxes, could easily escape notice there. It was not out of the realms of possibility that he’d have sent Tyraxes away; the dragon used to rest amongst the abandoned ruins of Maegor’s Palace where her presence would have been undetected before the Doom.

_ Without Tyraxes he could be anywhere,  _ she thought.  _ And without Tyraxes, he can’t help me but that matters little. If I know he lives and that he is well, that will be enough.  _

“For the right price, he can be hired.” Illyrio confirmed. “But my Lady would need to be generous with both her purse and her patience. Spinning his web takes time where none is already prepared. I dare say, the price would be quite high. Please, sit.”

Rhaella swallowed.  _ They have me now. They knew I’d ask for their services and they know I can’t pay. _

Lowering herself on the crimson cushion, Rhaella crossed her legs before her.

“I feel like our discussion will be rather short here. You are well aware of my position; there are very few estates still remaining to my family and I currently have access to none.” They had even taken the money and treasures Aerys had sent with her. She remembered Enys and the silver-haired captain and her heart twisted with resentment.

“There are your late husband’s riches to consider.” The man countered.

“They’re gone I’m afraid. I was not considered his heir.” She rested her hands on her belly and he caught the meaning.

“Quite a shame.” He commented. “A few moons earlier and our Emperor could have given you a child of his own.”

Rhaella shuddered, remembering that the dragonlord had  _ tried _ . He hadn’t been cruel to her quite like Aerys had been but he had still been cold and unkind. She had been scared for the babe if he were to get rough with her so she had no choice but complete obedience.

Him leaving before the swell of her abdomen could betray her was the kindest thing the Gods had done for her.

“Then again, I don’t think the people of Volantis would have liked that. They agreed to have an Emperor only because they feared his beast too much to refuse.” He stroked his beard. “Dragons are quite fearsome are they not? A single dragon wouldn’t have done much while the Freehold still stood but now every man, or woman, who commands one might as well rule the world.”

“Yet nobody rules it.” Rhaella traced her collarbone with one hand. She could not see the faint silver scars, covered as they were by her clothes, but she knew they were there.

_ Aerys might have finally found some peace now, if he lived. No more threats to worry him. _

“Yet.” A faraway look crossed Illyrio's face. “In Pentos, when they slaid the dragonlord, the beast escaped. It fled to the east and some who boasted of Valyrian blood rose to claim it. Merchants, sailors and whores alike sought to become dragonlords. Fools, all of them.” He sighed. “Of course, none were seen again. My lady wife had some Valyrian heritage. She had heard about it from some Westerosi pirate scoundrel who convinced her she could tame it. She begged me to let her go. She begged so sweetly, my Serra.”

_ And now you’re here, alone. _

Rhaella wasn’t foolish enough to think he was telling her this for no reason but his grief seemed real enough.  _ At least he cared for his wife. _

“Afterwards, I could not bear to stay there any longer so I moved my estate here.” He cleared his throat. “The strangest thing is, once the attempts stopped, all at once the beast seemed to vanish too. It was not a small thing, that dragon. If that one could just disappear like that, your son could be anywhere. You did not, after all, have any knowledge of him having gone to Pentos before.”

The reminder stung.

“I admit that might have been a fault of mine. He had a tendency to leave for months on end and I seldomly pressed for explanation on his return.” Aerys had done enough of that and she had seen first hand how little results that bore. The only thing it had accomplished was driving an even further wedge between the two of them. 

“If I may ask, when did that encounter even happen?”

The magister shrugged easily.

“Some five years ago I wager? Maybe more. I was not yet married then and he was still half a boy, though he tried his best to convince me otherwise.” He gave her a crooked smile. “The more relevant question might have been, what did he pay with?”

Raising his right hand, he gestured to the slaves, giving an order Rhaella couldn’t decipher. She licked her lips.

“More relevant?”

“More relevant to your own payment, of course.” His eyes twinkled. 

The slaves returned quickly, carrying with them a polished wooden box. They dropped it before them gently and she could tell from the strain that took on them that it was a heavy thing.

“Take a look.” Illyrio encouraged her and with trembling fingers she did.

A part of her already knew what she would find.

_ Stupid boy. What were you thinking? _

The dragon egg was one Rhaella had seen before. Red and black, it had once been nothing more than a very expensive stone. 

“ _ Balerion’s seed, a steed for the Prince. _ ” Her grandfather had called it, before that night at Maegor’s Palace. The egg had been stone and her family alive and yet when the night ended, the egg glowed with warmth and they were gone, ash in the wind.

_ A steed for the Prince, but it never hatched for him.  _ Her father had been certain it would until his last breath. Aerys had kept faith a couple more years before he gave up and decided Rhaegar was to ascend the ruins and claim Tyraxes instead, even if it took his life. 

“He traded it to you for a useless book?”

It had been his property technically, his own dragon egg even if it never hatched but she still struggled to wrap her head about this recklessness. The cost of breathing life into it had been so terrible, the importance it held for their family so great and Rhaegar traded it for a book he didn’t even end up claiming; if he stood in front of her now, she would have shaken him.

_ What was he thinking? _

“To him, the book was no more and no less useless than the egg.” 

The magister’s voice sounded far away. Rhaella’s thoughts rested solely on the object now before her, swirling inside her with a feverish intensity she could not reason for. Unable to help herself, she reached for it, raising it to her eye level. Even after all these years, it still felt as warm as a living thing. Her heart beat quickly and her stomach churned. Almost in a haze, she admired how the colours swirled, black and red twisting upon each other so deeply you couldn’t tell where one colour began and another ended.

_ It’s beautiful. _

“What do you want me to do with it?” She asked in a dazed tone, already knowing the answer.

“The cost for the information you want, my Lady, is a dragon. Hatch it, and Varys’ services will be yours.”

“And what will you do with a dragon?” She couldn’t help but ask. “It will never bond to you if you don’t boast a Valyrian bloodline.” The  _ right  _ Valyrian bloodline to top it off and even that was often not enough.

_ It never hatched for Rhaegar and  _ he  _ was descended from one of the oldest family of dragonriders that had survived the Dance. _

Her brain buzzed with the possibilities. it might not hatch for her either but she had nothing to lose, she decided. 

_ One who commands a dragon might as well rule the world.  _ She remembered vaguely when her own had still lived. She recalled the wind in her hair and the heat of his scales. 

_ I want it. _

The thought crept into her mind uninvited but once there, she could not shake it off again. She wanted it as much as she ever wanted anything; the desire was more intense than anything she’d felt in her life so far.

_ My ride to freedom. _

“You know as well as I do that when the Tigers seize the power, and seize it they will, the bloodshed will go from bad to worse. Essos is a bleeding wound, my Lady and there is nobody strong enough to cauterize it.” Through the windows, she could see that the sun had fully set by now. Only the candlelight illuminated the room now, twirling and flickering mysteriously.

“The Elephants aren’t much better either; they’re too weak to put up a proper fight and too weak to even win over their own people. They too would seek to use you, as I’m sure you’ve already seen. Don’t doubt for a moment that your dear host wouldn’t take you to his bed the moment your child is born, eager to give you some of his own.”

_ He is right. I don’t have long. _

“I am well aware that the beast would never be bound to me nor Varys so what we are proposing instead is a partnership.”

“What about Viserys? Can you assure me his safety? Can you return him to me?”

“The Tiger’s claws are deep in him.” He told her. “Not even Varys can talk them into releasing him. What he  _ can _ offer is communication, in the form of letters. Triarch Doniphos does not have long after what he pulled today - afterwards, you will stay with us. A powerless widow, bound to the Tigers’ obedience, you will be far from a threat. As long as we move subtly, no harm will come to Viserys.”

_ This can go wrong. There must be more benefits than loss to them. What if the egg doesn’t hatch? _

The baby shifted. It was all Rhaella needed.

_ No, it’s the only way. The only way I can ensure they’ll be safe. _

She felt aged and tired and crawling with more worries than she could shoulder.

“There are conditions I have. My child will be left in my care and none shall touch it. I won’t be taking on any husbands or lovers either; I’ve had my share. You will ensure Viserys is safe and you will find Rhaegar.” She breathed in deeply. “You won’t risk my life, or theirs. Dragons take years to grow and during that time, we will be taken care of. And when you have achieved what you want and both parties are abolished, you will let us go.”

After all this time, taking action felt as frightening and foreign as it felt exhilarating.

“Under those conditions and those alone, you have my partnership.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams are kicking my ass so this might be slightly incoherent actually, I wrote it during my self-declared day off. I wanted to have baby Dany this chapter already but she said no.  
> Rhaella @ Daenys' writing: this sucks. this is gibberish. who taught you to write  
> Somewhere in Westeros Rhaegar felt cold sweat when his mom found out he traded his fancy dragon egg for a book as a teenager but in his defence, he might have gotten more from that gibberish than she did. 
> 
> Also just putting this here, I'm pepelinkri on tumblr and @harpsexual (yes ik) on twitter


	12. Rhaegar III

In his dreams, he was somewhere cool and damp. The air smelled of sulfur in a way that made him think of  _ home _ , but there was nothing familiar in the darkness around him. Rocks and bones and water droplets falling periodically from the ceiling into the puddles below. 

Sometimes he would hear noises outside, feet drawing nearer. Other times, he would smell them instead and usually, he would wake from those dreams hungry enough that even the plain Northern food tasted like a meal fit for a king.

This time was different. There were no footsteps, no noises and he was starving. All of him seemed to ache and even moving felt like an impossible task. There was a wrongness in the air here; it cut to his bones like a chill. But even with all that, his senses were keen as ever. It was not with sight or scent that he felt it, but at that moment, he knew he wasn’t alone.

It made him uneasy and he withdrew deeper into his cave, dragging his heavy limbs behind with a metallic clang. There was an echoing fear inside of his mind, faint and mellow as if it came from a whole another lifetime; an instinct that warned of danger.

It was far away, for now. 

The air was cold, so cold. He had never been cold before and yet the feeling was familiar. He remembered, briefly, siblings and the scent of smoke, hearts that stopped beating and blood that stopped running.

_ Winter,  _ a whisper told him.  _ It’s winter. Have you never lived through winter, child? _

Rhaegar woke up disoriented with a metallic taste in his mouth. A brief inspection discovered he must have bitten the inside of his mouth at some point during the night. With a weary sight, he wiped the dried blood off his lips and set to getting the stains from his pillow, lest the maid used it to add to the gossip mill. Gods knew they had enough to talk about already, without him adding to the pile.

By the time he left his room in search of food, the memory of the dream had already faded into the depths of his memory. The castle grounds were lively at this hour of the morning and it offered a pleasant distraction; it was hard to think about much of anything when there was so much going on demanding his attention.

It only lasted so long until Maester Walys found him and requested aid with some old scrolls. The old man had a habit of appearing out of nowhere like a grey-clothed rodent the moment Rhaegar sat down to eat and by this point, he had gotten somewhat used to it. 

“I fear the information might be a bit dated as the Archmaester who wrote it lived before the Dance, so it would be good to have it updated.”

It was, in fact, more than a little dated. The way the man wrote about Valyria, Rhaegar wasn’t surprised that the castle maids avoided him in the hallways. Annoyed, he crossed out a whole paragraph on bathing in the blood of maidens. 

_ With all the awful things my people had on their conscience, it really takes talent to include the one thing they did not. _

While the work was somewhat demeaning, he had stopped avoiding it after the Maester had offered to pay him for it. It allowed him to be able to buy himself some clothes and more than that, he would no longer be entirely dependent on the goodwill of his hosts.

In some ways, it was even interesting to see how the people of Westeros perceived things. The history book that the Prince and Princess had been bemoaning over turned out to be a more fascinating read once he realized that it was far from an unbiased account. Information on Great Houses and past wars was useful but finding out how the people think and how they would interpret certain actions was even more so. 

Despite what his kin might have believed, the people of Sunset Kingdoms were a culture in their own right. They had rules and acts of conduct and their own sense of morality that sometimes clashed with what had been common in Valyria. 

It made him miss his home all the more, the joys and the terrors alike. On some days, it hit him so hard he could barely force himself to go about his business. Every glance, every sight and every sound was yet another reminder that this strange young world was all he had left now. 

And even now, he still wasn’t able if it had been worth it all.

“I thank you for your assistance.” The old man liked to hover around the study, for all he claimed to be busy. Rhaegar had grown to dislike him over time; he was far less learned than he thought himself to be and far less respectable too. There was a certain type of disgrace in having the Maester study him like an insect and order him around like a servant, only to turn around and repurpose that knowledge for his own gain. 

_ You’re getting paid,  _ he reminded himself but a part of him longed for Tyraxes.  _ He’d sing a different tune if she was here. They always do. _

But Tyraxes wasn’t there. He couldn’t feel her presence like he used to and it took some heartache to accept what that meant. 

He could hardly remember a time without her, a fact that suited him well because the foggy memories he did have were not pleasant. His mother had used to say that he had been born to claim that dragon but it had been strained, as things always were when it came to discussing things he had been born for. They both knew Tyraxes had been his last lifeline; his egg hadn’t hatched and no other hatchling his father had purchased would take to him, no matter how hard he tried.

A dragonlord without a dragon could not continue the House. 

His father’s terms had been simple, when he had dropped him off on the banks of the Fourteen Flames, as near the old estate as he had dared to go. He’d come back on a dragon or he wouldn’t return at all. He had been seven then and Tyraxes had been large and frightening, but he still feared her less than he feared his father’s pale green Vythor.

_ I’d be happy to see even that ugly thing now. _

Vythor hadn’t scared him in a long time now. Maybe things would have gone differently if he had.

_ Or maybe I’d be dead.  _ Somehow death didn’t seem like the worst possible outcome anymore.

The thought of Tyraxes had reminded him too strongly of the past gone by and the unpleasant memories stuck to him for the rest of the day. It was beyond tiring how old troubles would still haunt him even once those problems were done and solved. There was no more Father, no more Rhaenyra’s Tower, nothing to inherit and nothing to lose; by all accounts, those years should be dust in the wind now.

But the years stayed, the sorrows remained and so did he.

“What are you thinking about so hard?” Lyanna Stark, at least, seemed to be coming back to herself. After the King and the eldest Prince had rode away, her mood had been picking up slowly. These days, she seemed more carefree than ever and her stormy eyes seemed to chase one mischief after another.

“Dragons.” 

“Dragons?” Prince Benjen echoed, turning away from his horse. He had been only recently given one, Rhaegar had gathered, and that was why the two Starks insisted on going out riding so often. He’d walk them to the stable sometimes when he was left with nothing to do and it seemed to have become a routine for all three of them.

“Not fond of horses, are you?” The Princess laughed. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she did and at those moments, he was glad he had decided to seek out their company. Lyanna Stark had a mouth made for smiling. After all the ways she had helped, it was the least he could do to return the favour.

_ It’s more than just a favour, though.  _

He had no memory of when he decided that but at some point he had set his mind on the fact that she was deeply, irrevocably  _ good _ . There was a sense of compassion to her, a kind of warmth so rarely found among people. In the past few moons, he had come to associate it with the only time he didn’t feel completely miserable.

But she was also lonely and sad, in her own way, and no matter how he tried to ignore his conscience, he could not help but hate himself for turning the other way.

So he stopped trying to.

“I’ve never had a reason to be around them.” Horses didn’t do well in Valyria. The heat didn’t suit them and they made easy prey for the many wild dragons roaming around the city. While he had been taught how to ride them, at some point, it was a skill that had faded with time. It had never felt natural the way riding Tyraxes had either; the dragon had been almost like an extension of himself while a horse was simply an animal with unpredictable will.

Trying to explain that to the two royals was how he ended up accompanying them on their ride.

“You’ll get the hang of it, it just takes some practice.” The Prince reassured him. The boy, at least, was sympathetic, probably because he himself was still somewhat uncertain.

His sister, meanwhile, was enjoying herself. The way she kicked her stallion from slow prance into a gallop to run circles around the two of them, he feared she’d fall and break her neck but somehow she pulled it off effortlessly each time. The way she held herself, he could see it was a skill she was proud of.

“You’ve been around dragons, how are horses scarier?”

The snow ate her words, something he couldn’t help but find fascinating. Despite that, he could still pick up the teasing tone in her voice.

Surprising even himself, he found the energy to defend himself, leaning into the tone she had set up.

“They look mean.”

It was only partially a joke; the horse the stablehand had brought him had inky black eyes and an unnerving empty gaze. When it walked, it swayed side to side and every time it paused in its step, Rhaegar thought  _ this is it, it had enough of me. _

In the end, the beast tolerated him just fine. The Starks showed him a place in the woods, clearly meant for target practice.

_ Well, that’d explain the bows. _

“Don’t tell on us.” The Princess half ordered, half asked, mouth tugging into a grin. 

They took turns riding through the trail; the Prince rode carefully, slowing nearly to a stop before each target while his sister was bolder by far. She was completely comfortable with standing up in the saddle, balancing with the skill of a horselord but her aim could use some work as her arrows missed the target twice as often as they hit it. Rhaegar had been offered his own turn but he had refused, citing his injury. The burned flesh still refused to allow him certain movements - it would take a long time before he’d be attempting archery again.

_ Besides, if I’d probably fall off and break my neck if I tried this.  _ The horse made a sharp noise that he took as confirmation of his fears. He couldn’t wait to drop the beast off at the stable.

Instead, he offered to collect arrows for them. The task was dull but better than the alternative; standing still and freezing to death. The Princess had lent him her shawl when she noticed him shivering, but it didn’t do much in the face of the chill that hung over the land. He had come to learn moving helped more than additional layers did.

Despite that, by the time they returned to the castle he was both freezing and completely exhausted. There was an ache in his lungs and his breath rattled in his chest - a consequence of all the smoke he had inhaled, the Maester had told him months ago. He had also advised him to make sure to get some exercise daily, a recommendation Rhaegar was beginning to regret he had ignored when his legs nearly buckled after dismounting.

“Remember, don’t mention anything to anyone.” Princess Lyanna pressed again, shaking the snow from her hair.

_ Who would I possibly talk to,  _ he nearly said but bit his tongue. Some things were meant only for the privacy of his own mind.

“I hope you had some fun too. Picking arrows is boring.” She sounded almost apologetic, which confused him; he had tagged along out of his own volition, it was not her duty to make it fun for him.

“It’s the least I can do.” 

She frowned but before she could say anything, her brother came running from the other end of the stables.

“Lya, Harwin just told me his dog had puppies! I want to go see them!”

“ _ Puppies? _ How many?” Her attention immediately shifted and he left them at it, retiring to his room. It was hard to watch the two of them sometimes; not because they reminded him of him and Viserys, as he had barely known his brother but for some other reason he could not narrow down. Perhaps, he pondered as he took off his wet clothes, shivering all the while, a certain kind of happiness was simply difficult to observe without wanting a taste of it for yourself.

_ Viserys might have liked puppies too. _ It seemed like the kind of thing little children liked. Vaguely, he could remember Aerys talking about Viserys spending a lot of time with his hatchling.  _ Feeding it and playing with it as if it were a dog _ , he had claimed.

Eager to think of something else, his mind conjured up the image of the Stark siblings, cooing over a batch of infantile brownbellies and later he would blame that thought for the unsettling dreams that haunted him that night. Falling asleep did not come easy; no matter what, the chill would not leave him and he had developed a bothersome cough on top of it but when he did drift off, the rest was far from peaceful.

_ Once again, he found himself wandering through the water of the Temple in Valyria. The air was cool enough that he could see his breath turn into mist and spiral towards the high ceiling above. The stillness was soundless except for the distant caw of a raven. _

_ In the dim light, he could do hardly more than stumble about blindly, until his feet hit something and he landed on his knees and palms with a splash. _

_ Shaking the water from his hands, he turned to see what he’d tripped over only to scramble backwards into the water in horror when his eyes caught the dark shape. Even with the poor light, there was no mistaking the shape of a human body. Grotesquely, its mouth was hung open in a silent scream. _

_ Grasping for balance, his right hand ended up touching something soft, floating half-submerged in the liquid and he retracted it as if it had burned him. Only then did then did the darkness seem to lift, allowing him to see that the shallow pool was littered with corpses. _

_ The water was dark,  _ too  _ dark. _

_ Breath catching in his chest, he realised it was not water at all when he raised his hands and found them covered in crimson. _

_ The bodies floated calmly, their pale faces sticking from the lake of red. Some of them looked familiar but the blind panic that took over him would not let him dwell on it.  _

_ He was stuck, suddenly, with the knowledge that if he did not get out that very moment, he would join them. Whatever killed them was still there and the air was still as if in the presence of a predator. Turning around wildly, he looked for a door or a window but what he found instead was a monstrous, looming outline of a thousand swords, crafted into a seat. _

_ The horror loomed over the room, drawing thicker and denser and he knew at that moment that he had to ascend those stairs or join the bodies in the pool. The stillness of the water seemed to swallow all sound as he ran, jumping over the floating remains. _

Don’t look down, don’t look down.

_ The stairs of the throne were made of blades - they cut into him as he climbed and through the pain he could see his blood pour down the iron, joining the lake beneath. Still, he kept ascending, reaching out with his hands when his legs threatened to fail him. _

_ At the very top, a girl sat calmly. Her short hair swirled around her face, gleaming dancing silver in the moonlight. She burned like a flame of a candle, flickering and unsure but he was certain that she was there, flesh and bone. _

_ “Why have you come?” Her voice sounded over the stillness, accusing. “What do you seek?” _

_ No matter how hard he tried, Rhaegar could not think of an answer to give her. _

_ “I had to climb.” _

_ “No.” She told him sadly. “No, you didn’t. Dragons don’t climb steps. Dragons don’t bleed on the iron. Why have you come?” _

_ On her cheek, burn scars swirled and she flickered as if in a breeze. Her small hands were wrapped protectively around something, he noticed for the first time. She held it as if it were her lifeline. _

_ “Why have you come?”  _

_ With a trembling hand, he reached towards her but she flickered and waned under his touch. Beneath, the blood began to rise, carrying the bodies higher and higher up the throne and there was a distant splashing around of footsteps. _

_ “Why have you come?” _

_ Frost collected in the room, swirling like mist from behind him and he knew he could not look, should not look. He didn’t dare to. _

_ “Please.” He begged her. Like a thousand claws, the swords that made up the throne tore into his flesh but the pain was second to the nameless, causeless fear. _

_ Baela Targaryen looked at him with large, doe-like eyes, clutching her father’s crown. The rubies glinted in the winter air like the final source of warmth. _

_ “Dragons go West to die. Why have you come?” _

_ I’ll be dead, he realised. I’ll be dead and she’ll still be there. She’ll be watching.  _

_ The tide below kept rising and rising. The dark expanse of the room had swallowed it all. Behind his back, something was approaching but he didn’t dare look. He could not look. _

_ Blind with desperation, he reached, beyond the girl and beyond the cold, until his fingers reached something hard and cool and even then, he didn’t stop, pushing further until the wall shattered and broke and the darkness lit up with a roar of orange and crimson.  _

_ In the dimness of the memory, his mother stood on the balcony, her back turned to him. The streets crackled and burned and thick black clouds gathered above, painting the sky dark as the end of times. A great black beast crawled around her form, smoke running through its nostrils. Just for a moment, their eyes locked. _

He woke up with a startle, pushing away the person touching his shoulder.

“You have to close the door or the water will get in.” He told the Maester blearily.

The old man blinked at him owlishly, forcing a hand on his forehead. A shiver ran down his spine at the touch and he yanked his head away. His ears were ringing and his stomach rolled. His chest felt tight, making his breathing come out as raspy pants.

_ What  _ was _ that? _

“No fever. You should count yourself lucky, did I not tell you to avoid the cold? Your body is not used to it and with the illness, you lack the strength to fight off yet another one.” He tsked with annoyance but Rhaegar barely heard him over the noise in his ears.

Once he realised there was no danger, Maester Walys was quick to move onto business, fiddling around with his sleeves.

“A brother of mine, from the Citadel, sent me some inquiries about the Doom of Valyria, if you could look over that - I’ll pay you of course.” He added when he saw Rhaegar wasn’t reacting.

Getting himself under control was hard, with his heart still hammering in his chest with panic but Rhaegar managed to wrangle himself into nodding.

“Of course.”

_ What is wrong with me? I haven’t felt this scared since - since. _ He could not remember. When he had been dreaming about the Doom, the terror had been visible and rational but this time, it had been as if the cause was obscured to him, hidden behind a veil.

_ And the dead - what had killed them? _

Fortunately, the Maester didn’t linger too long, only staying to pass instructions about the work. Long after the old man had gone, Rhaegar remained in his bed, knees drawn to his chest.

_ Why have you come? _ The girl in his dreams had asked and he could not remember.

Why had he gone to Westeros? In that instance, amids the fire and ash, why had he turned around and sought safety? What drive had he had then that he could not find in himself now? He must have found some answer towards the end of the dream but it had slipped through his fingers again.

_ It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I’m here now and that’s how it is.  _

He twirled a lock of hair around his finger once and then twice, pulling on it until it ached. It was getting long.  _ I should cut it,  _ he thought absentmindedly but he didn’t move.

The sense of dread and numbness persisted even as he got down to work. The letters blurred on the page, unfamiliar Westerosi alphabet failing to make sense and later, he would not be able to recall what he wrote for the life of him. He could barely remember the questions themselves, or digging through his memories to answer them; it was all lost in a haze.

As soon as his duty was done, he was off, not even waiting to be paid. There was an unrest in his blood, a warmth extending to the tips of his fingers. His mind was so scattered that rushing down the hallway, he crashed straight into another person.

The force of the impact knocked the air out of his lungs and nearly sent him skidding across the floor. Steadying himself, he muttered apologies but the victim of his rush, an unfamiliar plain-looking man dressed in brown leather, cursed him out angrily and stalked away.

It was a clear day outside and the castle was hard at work. Rhaegar could hear the men training in the yard below but he paid them no mind. There was a spot, in the corner of the east part of the castle where few people ever ventured to. There had once been some hot springs there, probably, but time had dried them up and left only sulfuric rocks and uneven terrain. Once he reached it, he began to climb. His fingers dug into the small creaks in the stones and though his burned arm pulsed angrily, he pulled himself up all the way to the roof. Seating himself precariously on the stone bricks, he allowed his legs to dangle over the edge.

The heights were a comfort. He missed the wind in his hair, the sight of the ground and the people vanishing below, shrinking into harmless dots.

_ I was made for the skies. _

He had  _ loved _ to fly. It had been one of the few joys he had.

He remembered the first time he took to the air, clinging to Tyraxes’ red scales for dear life. When he had landed on the top of Rhaenyra’s Tower, his Father had smiled at him and ruffled his hair. Somehow that had felt worth more than the dragon itself.

And then there were the other times. He recalled sneaking out, climbing through his window to catch the dragon waiting for him below. He had had Tyraxes take him to the edge of the city in the middle of the night, and then he wandered, with nothing but a lyre and the clothes on his back. Those were the fondest memories he had. He remembered laughter and a friend - but it ended as things always did.

If Tyraxes were there, that very moment - where would he go? Home wasn’t an option and everything else was just one lonely, desolate place after another.

He pulled at his hair again. There was something he had to find but he had no idea what to search for. His thoughts were a tangled yarn of wool and he could not begin to unravel them to find the either end. Nor did he have any real desire to begin.

_ It was just a dream. It doesn’t need to mean anything. Sometimes dreams are just dreams. _

With a sigh, he laid back, folding his hands under his head. The sky above was bright and cloudless, a rare sight in this frozen wasteland. It would have been a perfect day for flight. Eventually, the western winds brought some clouds over and he watched them crawl across the sky.

Life could be so peaceful there. If he just laid there and watched the Northern skies, it was easy to let go and just exist - no past, no future, no cryptic warnings to untangle and no existential questions to consider.  _ Perhaps _ , he mused,  _ it was not the worst place to be. _

_ Where else would I even go? There was not a single reason why I’ve come here, so I don’t need to be anywhere else. _

That was a wonderful realization. It lifted some of the pressure that threatened to overwhelm him.

_ I can take my time. _

He didn’t delude himself. Sooner or later, he would climb down and then life would go on. He’d go riding with the Starks, maybe. Or go see the puppies. He’d help the old Maester with his increasingly degrading demands. He’d try to find some other way to make himself useful and waste time.

The thought brought him comfort but still, he could not find the will to move until the sun had nearly set. It had begun to snow at some point and the snowflakes had settled in his hair and on his clothes, only staying for a little while before melting away.

Something did feel different though. When he eventually climbed back down, approaching darkness was already slowing down the activities in the castle. The Princess caught him when he was crossing the courtyard. 

“There you are. I was wondering if the grumpkins got you.” There was an unspoken question in her voice.

“My apologies, I lost track of time.” 

“Yes, I can see that.” She eyed the snow clinging to him. “Aren’t you cold?”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. The tips of his fingers tingled with muscle memory of the wall breaking.

“I’m not. I suppose I got used to it.” 

“Well, you took your time, certainly.” Her words were doubtful but she didn’t press further. “Say, Martyn caught wind that Benjen and I are going to the Wolfswood on our rides and demands we bring someone along. Might I ask your help with that?”

Beneath the slyness of her request, he could see the problem she didn’t want to point out: anyone else would either take issue with her practicing archery or report it to those who would disapprove of it. 

“I’ll gladly be of assistance, Princess.”

Lyanna clasped her hands in front of her in gratitude but the real reward was her grin.

It was just as he had predicted. Any ripples the dream might have caused had run their course and things returned to how they’d been. Life at Winterfell kept him busy and there was no need for anything to change.

In the mornings, he helped the young Prince saddle his horse and then he followed them into the snow. The captain of the guards was not entirely pleased by this arrangement but the combined persuasion of the two royals eventually made him cave in.

“As long as your supervision is armed.” The condition amused Rhaegar because at no point of the discussion had anyone ever asked if he knew how to wield a sword, or any other weapon for that matter. The people of Westeros would assume that an able-bodied man would be taught the basics, but among the Valyrian nobility, it had been less self-evident. 

“I’ll take care of that.” The Princess promised with unflinching authority and that had been the end of it.

“Mikken would probably make you a sword, if you asked him.” Prince Benjen suggested. “The men took everything useful with them when they left. Anything Lyanna will find for you will be rusty and old.”

“That’s fine.” Rhaegar reassured him. “As long as it pleases your captain, it’ll do. It’s unlikely I’ll need to do much of anything anyway.” 

“You could always order it and then pass it on if you don’t want it.” The boy suggested, blinking with feigned innocence and he was reminded once again of Viserys. His brother had had a way of getting what he wanted.

“I don’t think your master-at-arms would be very happy with me. Or your Father, the King, for that matter.”

What the Princess brought to him, in the end, was not any rusty old weapon but a tool he had thought he’d never see again.

“I’ve been told this belongs to you. I’m sorry, I was going to return it earlier but I forgot about it.” She bit her lip and smiled awkwardly. “I hope you’re not mad.”

_ How could I be mad,  _ he wanted to say. The whip would not do him much good in its original purpose but - it was familiar and fit into the palm of his hand like an old friend. It was strangely comforting, a piece of home returned to him.

“I was told that Maester Walys would send it to the Citadel.” Was what he said instead, blinking away his disbelief.

Lyanna frowned. 

“It’s not his to give away. Dragon or no, I thought you might want it back.”

“I did.” He admitted, dazed. His heart beat loudly in his chest. “Thank you. I’m in your debt twice over now.”  _ A thank you will never cover it though.  _

“Don’t be silly, friends don’t count favours.” She waved it off with a laugh, then a glint entered her eyes. “Though you can teach me how to use it, maybe.”

“What is it?” Her brother cut in, scratching his head. “A whip?”

“For dragons.” Rhaegar explained. “Once they grow a certain size, you need a special kind of tool for them to even feel it.” Not that it hurt them. That was why it was essential to train them to listen to a specific set of commands from the moment they hatched; a young dragon could be forced to obey, while an older one could not.

“Most of the time it was more of a precaution though, just in case they wanted to eat someone or picked a fight with another dragon. I’ve never really had to use it since Tyraxes was solitary by nature. She didn’t like people or other dragons so she avoided them.” He had assumed it to be the influence of her first rider. Rhaenyra’s son had not been fond of company and dragons he liked even less.

“Tyraxes,” Lyanna tested the name but the sounds rolled harshly with her Westerosi pronunciation, “fitting for a dragon, I suppose. Very Valyrian. I wish I could have seen her.”

It felt odd, sharing this with them. For so long, Tyraxes had existed only in the confines of his thoughts and memories, along with most of the people he knew. But things were different now and he found he did not mind telling them about her.

_ Friends don’t count favours. _ Long ago someone had told him nearly the same thing and that alone should have scared him. But then again, if the fire burned so sweetly, Rhaegar would not mind getting burned over and over again. He trailed the length of the whip's handle lightly, brushing over the ruby with his thumb.

_ It can be different this time. _

The sense of oncoming danger remained in the background, buzzing faintly, but he tried his best to drown it out. Spending time with the Starks seemed to do the trick; he’d keep the tally of the targets hit for both of them and show them the basics of how to use a whip of that length. He had gotten more than a little rusty but the two of them didn’t know any better so it went entirely unnoticed.

“I still like a sword better.” The Prince declared in the end.

“They work better in Westeros.” Rhaegar affirmed softly. “The armour would make it somewhat useless in a battle and it wasn’t truly meant to be a weapon to begin with.”

“It’s a good trick though.” The Princess added her own judgement. “And easier to carry around.” She shrugged her bow from her back and into her lap. “You should show it to Brandon once he gets back. He might be interested, he has a thing for picking up tricks. This whole target practice was his idea and I know for a fact he only stopped trying to learn how to juggle knives after Father slapped the sense into him.”

No prophetic dream was necessary to tell that Rhaegar would  _ not _ be doing that. He hadn’t spent much time around the eldest Prince but he liked to think he had good instincts - he could tell from the way the man held himself that he did not share his siblings’ inclination for mercy.

He’d come to learn a lot about the two of them during those hours. Princess Lyanna liked the blue roses from the glass gardens and was terrible at needlework and Prince Benjen liked scary stories and had incredibly sharp eyesight, when it suited him. 

It was a shame that he’d never learned his lesson about the calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had so many problems with this chapter, ugh. I had a couple more scenes of them just messing around that I had to get rid of because they ruined the pacing.  
> I know lot of things are kind of confusing and that's on purpose, partly because Rhaegar's mental state is a jenga tower so he's not a very reliable (or logical) narrator, at least when it comes to personal stuff, and partly because George leaves the magic stuff often very vague. I have a firm idea for the explanations behind all the magical stuff happening but it messes with the style to actually explain it all :// A relevant piece of information maybe is just that whatever connection Targs have with their dragons, it seems to function a bit like warging does for Starks. Remember when Bran was in a coma and grew weaker when the window was closed and he could not hear Summer? And how Jaehaerys I sent for a hatchling when his daughter was sick? Yeah. Plus the fact magic seemed to die with dragons in canon so that potentially messed with the connection here. But it's impossible to explain anything through the narration when the narrator basically freaks out and then flat out refuses to think about it because his coping mechanism is to ignore everything bad that's ever happened to him. Ultimately, I decided that characterization is more important and that I can explain things that are not clear later on.  
> This chapter is kind of a setup for the next one, which should be more action-y.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've been sitting on since 2015 at least yet never dared to attempt to write down.
> 
> I plan to reveal most of the changes in history slowly through the story since that's something I enjoyed thinking about but here is a general summary of the changes to make everything easier to follow:  
> The doom of Valyria happens way later, just before the start of the story, but Targaryens were still exiled which led to the conquest still happening. For reasons disclosed later on, that lasted about 15 years or so before they suddenly left for Valyria after having their exile lifted. Orys Baratheon held the realm together for a bit but as the kingdoms were still very independent in Aegon's time, that clearly didn't last.  
> After that, Westeros didn't have issues with Targaryens for the most part, besides specific nuisances like Daemon, who would really like a crown in every version of the story and Aegon IV, who happened to find it a great place to pick up ladies from.  
> Because of that, certain things are going to play out differently and I'm excited to see how it all plays out.


End file.
